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Rob turned his head toward the open flap of the tent. He could see the tawny fringe of the Shewan subchief's buckskin jerkin at the fringe of the lamplight escaping the tent's doorway. And the two eagle's feathers sticking out to the side of the back of the native's head, up at the very top of the tent doorway. The savage must be at least six and a half feet tall, Rob thought. And he knows. How could he not know. The colonel was grunting that unmistakable sound of full rut.
Rob twitched and arched his back and stared straight up at the play of the shadows on the ceiling of the tent as the colonel nipped his belly button and stuck his tongue in it and then slurped out of the indention and ran a thick tongue down Rob's underbelly and into a fiery red thicket before tracing back up his engorged cock to the edge. Rob twitched again as his cock was possessed by the colonel's sucking lips. He sighed and rubbed his back on the bearskin rug thrown out over the rushes that served as the colonel's mattress. There was a faint rustling at the opening flap of the tent, and Rob knew that the savage was just beyond the opening, listening and silently observing. The colonel thought no more of an Indian, even a Shewan subchief, than he did of the stray dogs of the camp, though, so it bothered him not a twit if the Indian could see them.
The shadows on the ceiling showed the hulky colonel hunched over his diminutive, lithe aide. Rob was kneeling on his knees on the colonel's beefy thighs, with his back arched behind him, his shoulder blades touching the silky fur of the robe. The colonel encased his young aide with an arm wrapped around the small of the younger man's back. His other hand was cupping Rob's small, but firm ball sacs and the small finger of that hand already had purchase just inside the rim of Rob's ass. The golden crest ring on that finger was rubbing roughly on Rob's rim, a familiar feel for Rob after four months of service under the second in command of Brigadier General Nicholas Herkimer, commander of American forces in the Mohawk Valley.
Colonel Seth Hampton worked his young aide's cock hard with his mouth. He'd already been sucked into arousal himself. His evening invigoration had been interrupted by the announcement that one of his spies in the English forces, the subchieftain Otetiani of the Shewan minor tribe of the Iroquois nation, had arrived and awaited his pleasure. Hampton had irritably commanded that the savage stand outside the tent until it was his pleasure to receive him—his pleasure obviously was focused elsewhere at the moment.
Hampton having had enough of his young man's cock, the young aide watched the shadows on the ceiling swirl into a new pattern, as the colonel wrapped large, callused hands around Rob's ankles and forced his legs up the length of his body. In the process, Rob was rolled up onto his shoulder blades. The colonel held Rob's legs to his body with hands pressing in under the crook of his knees, as the older man savaged the younger man's entrance with tongue and teeth and a heavy helping of saliva.
Then the colonel was up on his knees, crouching over the young man and thrusting inside him. Rob arched his back and spread his arms wide, digging his fists into the soft, grass-covered ground of the New York valley and took what the colonel was giving him, like a good soldier. And the colonel, mad and worried about the positioning of his forces and the rumors of the gathering British attack in superior force, put all of his frustration and fury into plowing his flaming-red headed subordinate hard and fast and deep.
The colonel was grunting and groaning and voicing his pleasure in tones that could be heard all over camp, without the possibility of misinterpretation. All of the soldiers knew their colonel fucked men. But he was a damn good soldier and a brilliant strategen, and if anyone was going to conceive how to push the British out of the Mohawk Valley and back to London, it was probably going to be him. So there were few to deny him his release.
Rob had been sent from the brothels of that pagan city of Savannah, precisely to be the tension reliever to the colonel that he needed. The young man had been trained to this, so there were no regrets or concern to be expended in that direction.
Rob held off on his vocalizing at first, because he knew the savage was out there, just beyond the open flap. He'd only caught a glimpse of the man, but he had frightened Rob. He was so tall and large, a man and a half. Rob had never been comfortable around the savages. He felt something primeval in them. They frightened and fascinated and aroused him all at the same time. He had known—biblically—all of the types of colonists who had washed up on the American shores. They no longer meant anything to him. No, that wasn't true. He had come to really like the colonel, to want to give him any relief possible for the responsibilities he had to bear.
It was strange to think that at the moment, when the colonel was driving his cock so hard inside Rob, making his legs ache and his back rub raw as it was jerked back and forth on the bearskin under the thrusting of the colonel's manhood. But the colonel was usually gentle with him. It was only now when the colonel was so worried about how badly the campaign and positioning was going and so worked up and frustrated that he was taking Rob like a frenzied bull cow.
Rob had to do what he could to help the colonel. He knew the colonel liked it when he groaned and moaned and said the colonel was spitting him and was too big for him. So that's what he did, ignoring the unsettling presence of the Shewan warrior. And it worked. In a cry of ecstasy, the colonel shot off inside him in one, two, three lurchings and then, without extracting his cock, pulled Rob's legs down alongside his and began to kiss him on the nipples, neck, and lips. Rob wrapped his arms around the thin waist of the well-fit military officer and returned the kisses enthusiastically.
He had done his duty. Now it was time to ask for his favor.
"No, Rob, we've discussed this. I can't let you stay." The colonel had pulled back on his rump and brought the younger, smaller man with him. Hampton now was sitting on the bearskin rug, his legs stretched out in front of him. His aide was in his lap, sitting on the colonel's half tumescent cock, his legs encircling his master's thin waist, the two chests against each other, beating hearts competing, throbbing in the temporary quietude. Hampton had his lips buried in the aide's throbbing neck, and Rob was staring across the light of the candle, watching the hint of the savage's persistent presence. Rob knew there would be another fucking. The colonel almost always wanted another one, and the second one would not have the fire of the first. The second one was the one that told Rob the colonel really cared for him. And this was the colonel's most vulnerable time.
"But, I don't want to leave you. I—"
"And I don't want you to go. But you're no solider, Rob. We will, almost inevitably, be in the thick of fighting within the week. Burgoyne is gathering forces up on Lake Champlain, more than 10,000 English, Canadians, and Indian forces, including the Iroquois and the Huron. They'll be streaming down here, joined by Howe's forces from the Coast. They are more than we can handle. It will be a bloodbath if I cannot come up with a miracle. No, you cannot stay. You are no soldier. This is all you are good for me. This release of my tension in the field."
Rob lowered his head onto the colonel's shoulder, and Hampton could feel the wetness of his tears.
"Nay, lad, I didn't mean it harsh like that. You are a treasure. You are my treasure. There is no way you can help me other than to leave for Albany tonight and not come back until it is safer."
"I know I can do more. I know—" Rob snuffled.
"This is enough, love, this is enough." And with that, the colonel moved his encasing, heavily muscled arms down to the small of Rob's back, and Rob leaned back, as Hampton's lips and teeth went to the younger man's nipples. Rob sighed for him and felt the strong cock of his master coming back to life. Rob began to move his hips, and the colonel started to breath heavily. Hampton turned Rob onto his side and came down with him, leaving his cock encased. They kissed and Hampton continued worrying the younger man's nipples with his fingers while he side split him in long, languid glides to mutual ejaculation.
Afterward the colonel rose, wrapped himself in a fur-lined deer-skinned robe, and sat down at his field desk, looking very official. He called the patiently waiting Shewan subchieftain, Otetiani, in. The chieftain entered the tent, all dignity and towering strength and handsome savage splendor, and stood in front of the colonel. Despite the unusual heat in the Mohawk valley in July of 1777, the Indian chieftain was wearing the same attire his tribe wore year round—side-fringed buckskin breeches with a bearskin codpiece, and a buckskin jerkin with fringed arms. His moccasins were of some sort of finely cleaned leather and he had two feathers attached to the base of whatever was holding his long black ponytail at the back of his head—two feathers to denote his somewhat exalted rank. He turned his head briefly to Rob, lying, still naked on his back on the bearskin rug, and Rob saw the Indian's eyes go wide with surprise. Rob couldn't imagine why the savage would be surprised. He had heard them fuck twice and had no doubt gotten an eyeful already.
Otetiani inexplicably bowed low to the young aide and said something in his own language that Rob couldn't even begin to fathom. And then he turned his full attention to the colonel.
"Is it true?" asked the colonel. "What I sent you to find out, is it true?"
"True," the Indian said, in quite good English. "Iroquois have called all of its nation—all minor tribes—to join with the Huron and serve the English in the coming fight."
"The Iroquois and the English? I'd never thought it would come to that. Damn. Isn't there anything you can do to split them? Your people hate the Huron."
"True. The Iroquois hate the Huron, and none more than my own Shewan. But the English are strong. And the Huron are strong. The Iroquois are not strong enough to resist. And the Shewan feel weak too."
"The Shewan feel weak? You are the most ferocious warriors of the Iroquois nation. How can you feel weak?"
"The signs have not been good. The Shewan wait for a sign. We need strength; the Shewan warriors need to feel the strength."
"Well, try to think of something." the colonel said. "Do whatever you can do to drive a wedge between the Indian forces. We have to try to do something to weaken St. John's forces up at Fort Oswego."
"I will try. There may be something." Otetiani sounded somewhat reassuring. Hampton knew that Otetiani was smart as a whip as well as being the bravest and studliest of the Shewan tribe. The colonel had often thought he'd like to get his cock inside him, but he knew Otetiani was too strong for him. Two determined tops did not make a promising match.
He was finished with the Indian. He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He didn't bother to look up, so he missed the contemplative look the Indian subchief was giving Rob.
After Otetiani left, the colonel dismissed Rob as well. He didn't want to reveal how hard it was for him to let his young lover go, so he just gruffly told him to pull his breeches and jerkin on and to be on his way to Albany before the break of day.
When Rob left the colonel's tent and started moving toward his own, he heard the slight rustle of the bushes at the edge of the encampment clearing. He hoped it wasn't the sergeant sniffing around to claim his seconds. The sergeant was thicker and crueler than the colonel was.
But it wasn't the sergeant. Otetiani, the savage subchieftain, was beckoning him the edge of the light from the encampment's fires.
"You want to help your colonel?" Otetiani said to him in a hoarse whisper. "I heard you say that."
"Yes, but I don't know what I can do. If I only could get to Fort Oswego and see the English colonel, St. John, there may be some way I can help. I have heard that men please him. Surely there's something I can do there to find information that will help our forces. The colonel's right, I'm no fighting soldier. But I have my own means of fighting."
"I could take you to St. John," Otetiani said. "I could deliver you to him as a prisoner; say you are Colonel Hampton's aide. You would have value to St. John then, wouldn't you?"
"You would do that?" Rob asked, suddenly excited about the possibilities.
"Yes. But I have orders too. You could help me with my orders. If you really, truly want to help your colonel and are truly brave. But it would not be easy, what I have to propose. Most men could not endure it."
In short order Otetiani had told Rob what he could do and Rob had agreed. It wasn't anything less than he knew what to do.
While they talked, Otetiani was fingering Rob's flaming-red hair gingerly, and when Rob agreed to the plan, Otetiani spoke.
"To do what I need to do, I need much power. I need to gather strength and power. Before I take you there, you need to give me that power."
"Yes," Rob said, although he felt his heart stop and his breath escape him. He was trembling. He'd already agreed, though, so both now and then, it didn't make any difference.
Otetiani took Rob by the arm and led him into the fringe of bushes at the edge of the encampment, past the horses staked out on a rope. The horses whinnied slightly and shifted nervously away from them as they passed. The Indian was an imposing, troubling figure. A man and a half.
Otetiani stopped in front of a smooth-barked tree of middling girth with two sturdy branches at equal heights jutting out at the side a foot above the level of Rob's head. He maneuvered Rob to where his back was against the tree. The towering Indian faced the young man with the flaming-red hair closely and pushed him gently down on his haunches with one hand while releasing his own codpiece with his other hand and letting it drop.
He was already half ready, at the very thought of what he was going to do.
The thick cock was larger than Rob had ever managed before, but he worked expertly on it with his lips and mouth as he had been trained to do at the Savannah brothel. It was mere minutes before Otetiani pulled Rob up and turned him toward the tree. Rob grabbed up for handholds on the jutting branches, while Otetiani spit on his hands and added that to the spit Rob had already lathered the huge tool with. The Indian savage lifted Rob by his hips with his hands, spreading the young man's butt cheeks with his strong thumbs, set Rob's hole on the bulbous head of his cock and started working his way in.
Fearing raising an alarm in the camp, Rob stifled the scream he wanted to let loose as well as his gulps and gasps and groans as he slowly stretched inside to accommodate the digging tool. The Indian was so tall that Rob's feet were off the ground and the only leverage he had was the handholds on the tree branches.
When Otetiani had bottomed inside Rob's ass canal, he moved one hand to palm the young man's belly and the other one to cap the flaming-red hair of his head and began chanting in his native tongue. He was using the strong palm of his hand on Rob's belly to move the young man's channel up and down on his skewering member, and Rob was pulling up and releasing on the branches to try to match the rhythm.
Rob came first in a shooting against the tree trunk. Otetiani stopped his fucking and chanting long enough to bend his knees and set Rob's feet on the ground. He used the fingers of the hand he had been palming Rob's belly with to capture globs of Rob's cum, which he dabbed on his own cheeks in streaks going from ear to upper lip.
Then he palmed Rob's belly again and picked him up and resumed stroking the young man's ass up and down on his cock until he spasmed four, five times, shooting great spurts of man juice up into Rob's intestines.
The chanting stopped and the hand came off the head. But the hand remained on the belly, and Rob remained trapped against the tree trunk, while the Indian pulled a hunting knife from a sheath at his side.
Rob felt a brief stab of fear that the savage had tricked him; that he didn't intend to help the colonel's cause at all and only wanted to fuck Rob before collecting his scalp. But Otetiani just used the knife to cut a lock of Rob's flaming-red hair and tuck it into the band holding his ponytail in place.
"Is good. Is true. You gift from gods. I can feel the new power. We go now." After declaring that, Otetiani just let Rob slump to the ground and readjusted his codpiece and turned to stride back to the encampment to prepare to leave.
It was several minutes before Rob was able to rise and hobble after him. He'd never been fucked like that before.
* * *
The sun was going down as the ceremony in the Shewan longhouse deep in the Mohawk Valley began. It was announced with the beating of drums that required all woman and c***dren of the tribe to leave the village clearing in the flattened hillock accessible by a secret cliffside trail and gather at the life-giving stream below to sing praises to the gods until they heard the end to the drum beats.
All was as prescribed by the chieftain, Nadie, as given on his deathbed following the previous spring's battle with the Huron. He had counseled that the Shewan were to retreat to a minor role in Iroquois affairs, subordinating themselves to the other tribes when they normally would take a lead in matters of warfare, until they had regained their strength and power, and, most important, the blessings of the gods that they had forfeited by losing to the Huron.
As he had neared death, Nadie told his warriors to look for a sign from the gods—a being with fire coming out of his head who possessed power and would transfer power to warriors who were worthy through ritual congress. In his dying breaths, he had related in detail the requirements of the ceremony.
When assurances were given that all of the woman and c***dren had departed the village circle, the torches were lit in the longhouse of the chieftain.
The flaming-haired Rob Winston was led, a willing participant, into one end of the longhouse. He was nude except for a tight, strong leather belt around his belly of the brightest crimson that had dyed-red feathers and strong rings of gold attached to the belt at the side of his waist, fine red-dyed moccasins, and thick, red-dyed leather bands at his wrists, also with rings of gold attached to them.
He stumbled into the tent and would have fallen if he had not been supported by two young, strong, muscular braves who were helping him to walk. These braves were costumed in the identical minimal dress Winston had, except that they both also had long, sharp hunting knives in sheaths tied to their thighs by leather straps.
Winston had spent much of the afternoon drinking ceremonial cups of a potion that largely consisted of alcohol and herbs from the forest collected for their propensity to numb and block pain. The day before he had been plied with purgatives that emptied and purified his internal systems and had his channel packed with concoctions of the numbing potions that had been withdrawn mere hours before the ceremony.
Winston and his escorts approached the center of the longhouse, where an altar had been placed and covered with a blanket made of laced-together red fox pelts.
All of the adult men of the tribe were gathered in a circle around the altar, At the outer edge of the circle were the elders and the older unselected warriors, dressed in their usual leather breeches and jerkins. The only difference in their dress on this special ceremonial day from any other day was their long, black hair. Whereas a Shewan tribesman's hair customarily was tied back in a ponytail, with a feather in the band, now every man's hair was hanging loose below his shoulders. The torches lighting the ceremony were lodged in the ground behind this outer circle of men, which included much the greater number of the men of the tribe. At the four geographic points of this circle sat a set of two drummers each, maintaining a steady, slow beat to mark the duration of the ceremony.
Rob twitched and arched his back and stared straight up at the play of the shadows on the ceiling of the tent as the colonel nipped his belly button and stuck his tongue in it and then slurped out of the indention and ran a thick tongue down Rob's underbelly and into a fiery red thicket before tracing back up his engorged cock to the edge. Rob twitched again as his cock was possessed by the colonel's sucking lips. He sighed and rubbed his back on the bearskin rug thrown out over the rushes that served as the colonel's mattress. There was a faint rustling at the opening flap of the tent, and Rob knew that the savage was just beyond the opening, listening and silently observing. The colonel thought no more of an Indian, even a Shewan subchief, than he did of the stray dogs of the camp, though, so it bothered him not a twit if the Indian could see them.
The shadows on the ceiling showed the hulky colonel hunched over his diminutive, lithe aide. Rob was kneeling on his knees on the colonel's beefy thighs, with his back arched behind him, his shoulder blades touching the silky fur of the robe. The colonel encased his young aide with an arm wrapped around the small of the younger man's back. His other hand was cupping Rob's small, but firm ball sacs and the small finger of that hand already had purchase just inside the rim of Rob's ass. The golden crest ring on that finger was rubbing roughly on Rob's rim, a familiar feel for Rob after four months of service under the second in command of Brigadier General Nicholas Herkimer, commander of American forces in the Mohawk Valley.
Colonel Seth Hampton worked his young aide's cock hard with his mouth. He'd already been sucked into arousal himself. His evening invigoration had been interrupted by the announcement that one of his spies in the English forces, the subchieftain Otetiani of the Shewan minor tribe of the Iroquois nation, had arrived and awaited his pleasure. Hampton had irritably commanded that the savage stand outside the tent until it was his pleasure to receive him—his pleasure obviously was focused elsewhere at the moment.
Hampton having had enough of his young man's cock, the young aide watched the shadows on the ceiling swirl into a new pattern, as the colonel wrapped large, callused hands around Rob's ankles and forced his legs up the length of his body. In the process, Rob was rolled up onto his shoulder blades. The colonel held Rob's legs to his body with hands pressing in under the crook of his knees, as the older man savaged the younger man's entrance with tongue and teeth and a heavy helping of saliva.
Then the colonel was up on his knees, crouching over the young man and thrusting inside him. Rob arched his back and spread his arms wide, digging his fists into the soft, grass-covered ground of the New York valley and took what the colonel was giving him, like a good soldier. And the colonel, mad and worried about the positioning of his forces and the rumors of the gathering British attack in superior force, put all of his frustration and fury into plowing his flaming-red headed subordinate hard and fast and deep.
The colonel was grunting and groaning and voicing his pleasure in tones that could be heard all over camp, without the possibility of misinterpretation. All of the soldiers knew their colonel fucked men. But he was a damn good soldier and a brilliant strategen, and if anyone was going to conceive how to push the British out of the Mohawk Valley and back to London, it was probably going to be him. So there were few to deny him his release.
Rob had been sent from the brothels of that pagan city of Savannah, precisely to be the tension reliever to the colonel that he needed. The young man had been trained to this, so there were no regrets or concern to be expended in that direction.
Rob held off on his vocalizing at first, because he knew the savage was out there, just beyond the open flap. He'd only caught a glimpse of the man, but he had frightened Rob. He was so tall and large, a man and a half. Rob had never been comfortable around the savages. He felt something primeval in them. They frightened and fascinated and aroused him all at the same time. He had known—biblically—all of the types of colonists who had washed up on the American shores. They no longer meant anything to him. No, that wasn't true. He had come to really like the colonel, to want to give him any relief possible for the responsibilities he had to bear.
It was strange to think that at the moment, when the colonel was driving his cock so hard inside Rob, making his legs ache and his back rub raw as it was jerked back and forth on the bearskin under the thrusting of the colonel's manhood. But the colonel was usually gentle with him. It was only now when the colonel was so worried about how badly the campaign and positioning was going and so worked up and frustrated that he was taking Rob like a frenzied bull cow.
Rob had to do what he could to help the colonel. He knew the colonel liked it when he groaned and moaned and said the colonel was spitting him and was too big for him. So that's what he did, ignoring the unsettling presence of the Shewan warrior. And it worked. In a cry of ecstasy, the colonel shot off inside him in one, two, three lurchings and then, without extracting his cock, pulled Rob's legs down alongside his and began to kiss him on the nipples, neck, and lips. Rob wrapped his arms around the thin waist of the well-fit military officer and returned the kisses enthusiastically.
He had done his duty. Now it was time to ask for his favor.
"No, Rob, we've discussed this. I can't let you stay." The colonel had pulled back on his rump and brought the younger, smaller man with him. Hampton now was sitting on the bearskin rug, his legs stretched out in front of him. His aide was in his lap, sitting on the colonel's half tumescent cock, his legs encircling his master's thin waist, the two chests against each other, beating hearts competing, throbbing in the temporary quietude. Hampton had his lips buried in the aide's throbbing neck, and Rob was staring across the light of the candle, watching the hint of the savage's persistent presence. Rob knew there would be another fucking. The colonel almost always wanted another one, and the second one would not have the fire of the first. The second one was the one that told Rob the colonel really cared for him. And this was the colonel's most vulnerable time.
"But, I don't want to leave you. I—"
"And I don't want you to go. But you're no solider, Rob. We will, almost inevitably, be in the thick of fighting within the week. Burgoyne is gathering forces up on Lake Champlain, more than 10,000 English, Canadians, and Indian forces, including the Iroquois and the Huron. They'll be streaming down here, joined by Howe's forces from the Coast. They are more than we can handle. It will be a bloodbath if I cannot come up with a miracle. No, you cannot stay. You are no soldier. This is all you are good for me. This release of my tension in the field."
Rob lowered his head onto the colonel's shoulder, and Hampton could feel the wetness of his tears.
"Nay, lad, I didn't mean it harsh like that. You are a treasure. You are my treasure. There is no way you can help me other than to leave for Albany tonight and not come back until it is safer."
"I know I can do more. I know—" Rob snuffled.
"This is enough, love, this is enough." And with that, the colonel moved his encasing, heavily muscled arms down to the small of Rob's back, and Rob leaned back, as Hampton's lips and teeth went to the younger man's nipples. Rob sighed for him and felt the strong cock of his master coming back to life. Rob began to move his hips, and the colonel started to breath heavily. Hampton turned Rob onto his side and came down with him, leaving his cock encased. They kissed and Hampton continued worrying the younger man's nipples with his fingers while he side split him in long, languid glides to mutual ejaculation.
Afterward the colonel rose, wrapped himself in a fur-lined deer-skinned robe, and sat down at his field desk, looking very official. He called the patiently waiting Shewan subchieftain, Otetiani, in. The chieftain entered the tent, all dignity and towering strength and handsome savage splendor, and stood in front of the colonel. Despite the unusual heat in the Mohawk valley in July of 1777, the Indian chieftain was wearing the same attire his tribe wore year round—side-fringed buckskin breeches with a bearskin codpiece, and a buckskin jerkin with fringed arms. His moccasins were of some sort of finely cleaned leather and he had two feathers attached to the base of whatever was holding his long black ponytail at the back of his head—two feathers to denote his somewhat exalted rank. He turned his head briefly to Rob, lying, still naked on his back on the bearskin rug, and Rob saw the Indian's eyes go wide with surprise. Rob couldn't imagine why the savage would be surprised. He had heard them fuck twice and had no doubt gotten an eyeful already.
Otetiani inexplicably bowed low to the young aide and said something in his own language that Rob couldn't even begin to fathom. And then he turned his full attention to the colonel.
"Is it true?" asked the colonel. "What I sent you to find out, is it true?"
"True," the Indian said, in quite good English. "Iroquois have called all of its nation—all minor tribes—to join with the Huron and serve the English in the coming fight."
"The Iroquois and the English? I'd never thought it would come to that. Damn. Isn't there anything you can do to split them? Your people hate the Huron."
"True. The Iroquois hate the Huron, and none more than my own Shewan. But the English are strong. And the Huron are strong. The Iroquois are not strong enough to resist. And the Shewan feel weak too."
"The Shewan feel weak? You are the most ferocious warriors of the Iroquois nation. How can you feel weak?"
"The signs have not been good. The Shewan wait for a sign. We need strength; the Shewan warriors need to feel the strength."
"Well, try to think of something." the colonel said. "Do whatever you can do to drive a wedge between the Indian forces. We have to try to do something to weaken St. John's forces up at Fort Oswego."
"I will try. There may be something." Otetiani sounded somewhat reassuring. Hampton knew that Otetiani was smart as a whip as well as being the bravest and studliest of the Shewan tribe. The colonel had often thought he'd like to get his cock inside him, but he knew Otetiani was too strong for him. Two determined tops did not make a promising match.
He was finished with the Indian. He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He didn't bother to look up, so he missed the contemplative look the Indian subchief was giving Rob.
After Otetiani left, the colonel dismissed Rob as well. He didn't want to reveal how hard it was for him to let his young lover go, so he just gruffly told him to pull his breeches and jerkin on and to be on his way to Albany before the break of day.
When Rob left the colonel's tent and started moving toward his own, he heard the slight rustle of the bushes at the edge of the encampment clearing. He hoped it wasn't the sergeant sniffing around to claim his seconds. The sergeant was thicker and crueler than the colonel was.
But it wasn't the sergeant. Otetiani, the savage subchieftain, was beckoning him the edge of the light from the encampment's fires.
"You want to help your colonel?" Otetiani said to him in a hoarse whisper. "I heard you say that."
"Yes, but I don't know what I can do. If I only could get to Fort Oswego and see the English colonel, St. John, there may be some way I can help. I have heard that men please him. Surely there's something I can do there to find information that will help our forces. The colonel's right, I'm no fighting soldier. But I have my own means of fighting."
"I could take you to St. John," Otetiani said. "I could deliver you to him as a prisoner; say you are Colonel Hampton's aide. You would have value to St. John then, wouldn't you?"
"You would do that?" Rob asked, suddenly excited about the possibilities.
"Yes. But I have orders too. You could help me with my orders. If you really, truly want to help your colonel and are truly brave. But it would not be easy, what I have to propose. Most men could not endure it."
In short order Otetiani had told Rob what he could do and Rob had agreed. It wasn't anything less than he knew what to do.
While they talked, Otetiani was fingering Rob's flaming-red hair gingerly, and when Rob agreed to the plan, Otetiani spoke.
"To do what I need to do, I need much power. I need to gather strength and power. Before I take you there, you need to give me that power."
"Yes," Rob said, although he felt his heart stop and his breath escape him. He was trembling. He'd already agreed, though, so both now and then, it didn't make any difference.
Otetiani took Rob by the arm and led him into the fringe of bushes at the edge of the encampment, past the horses staked out on a rope. The horses whinnied slightly and shifted nervously away from them as they passed. The Indian was an imposing, troubling figure. A man and a half.
Otetiani stopped in front of a smooth-barked tree of middling girth with two sturdy branches at equal heights jutting out at the side a foot above the level of Rob's head. He maneuvered Rob to where his back was against the tree. The towering Indian faced the young man with the flaming-red hair closely and pushed him gently down on his haunches with one hand while releasing his own codpiece with his other hand and letting it drop.
He was already half ready, at the very thought of what he was going to do.
The thick cock was larger than Rob had ever managed before, but he worked expertly on it with his lips and mouth as he had been trained to do at the Savannah brothel. It was mere minutes before Otetiani pulled Rob up and turned him toward the tree. Rob grabbed up for handholds on the jutting branches, while Otetiani spit on his hands and added that to the spit Rob had already lathered the huge tool with. The Indian savage lifted Rob by his hips with his hands, spreading the young man's butt cheeks with his strong thumbs, set Rob's hole on the bulbous head of his cock and started working his way in.
Fearing raising an alarm in the camp, Rob stifled the scream he wanted to let loose as well as his gulps and gasps and groans as he slowly stretched inside to accommodate the digging tool. The Indian was so tall that Rob's feet were off the ground and the only leverage he had was the handholds on the tree branches.
When Otetiani had bottomed inside Rob's ass canal, he moved one hand to palm the young man's belly and the other one to cap the flaming-red hair of his head and began chanting in his native tongue. He was using the strong palm of his hand on Rob's belly to move the young man's channel up and down on his skewering member, and Rob was pulling up and releasing on the branches to try to match the rhythm.
Rob came first in a shooting against the tree trunk. Otetiani stopped his fucking and chanting long enough to bend his knees and set Rob's feet on the ground. He used the fingers of the hand he had been palming Rob's belly with to capture globs of Rob's cum, which he dabbed on his own cheeks in streaks going from ear to upper lip.
Then he palmed Rob's belly again and picked him up and resumed stroking the young man's ass up and down on his cock until he spasmed four, five times, shooting great spurts of man juice up into Rob's intestines.
The chanting stopped and the hand came off the head. But the hand remained on the belly, and Rob remained trapped against the tree trunk, while the Indian pulled a hunting knife from a sheath at his side.
Rob felt a brief stab of fear that the savage had tricked him; that he didn't intend to help the colonel's cause at all and only wanted to fuck Rob before collecting his scalp. But Otetiani just used the knife to cut a lock of Rob's flaming-red hair and tuck it into the band holding his ponytail in place.
"Is good. Is true. You gift from gods. I can feel the new power. We go now." After declaring that, Otetiani just let Rob slump to the ground and readjusted his codpiece and turned to stride back to the encampment to prepare to leave.
It was several minutes before Rob was able to rise and hobble after him. He'd never been fucked like that before.
* * *
The sun was going down as the ceremony in the Shewan longhouse deep in the Mohawk Valley began. It was announced with the beating of drums that required all woman and c***dren of the tribe to leave the village clearing in the flattened hillock accessible by a secret cliffside trail and gather at the life-giving stream below to sing praises to the gods until they heard the end to the drum beats.
All was as prescribed by the chieftain, Nadie, as given on his deathbed following the previous spring's battle with the Huron. He had counseled that the Shewan were to retreat to a minor role in Iroquois affairs, subordinating themselves to the other tribes when they normally would take a lead in matters of warfare, until they had regained their strength and power, and, most important, the blessings of the gods that they had forfeited by losing to the Huron.
As he had neared death, Nadie told his warriors to look for a sign from the gods—a being with fire coming out of his head who possessed power and would transfer power to warriors who were worthy through ritual congress. In his dying breaths, he had related in detail the requirements of the ceremony.
When assurances were given that all of the woman and c***dren had departed the village circle, the torches were lit in the longhouse of the chieftain.
The flaming-haired Rob Winston was led, a willing participant, into one end of the longhouse. He was nude except for a tight, strong leather belt around his belly of the brightest crimson that had dyed-red feathers and strong rings of gold attached to the belt at the side of his waist, fine red-dyed moccasins, and thick, red-dyed leather bands at his wrists, also with rings of gold attached to them.
He stumbled into the tent and would have fallen if he had not been supported by two young, strong, muscular braves who were helping him to walk. These braves were costumed in the identical minimal dress Winston had, except that they both also had long, sharp hunting knives in sheaths tied to their thighs by leather straps.
Winston had spent much of the afternoon drinking ceremonial cups of a potion that largely consisted of alcohol and herbs from the forest collected for their propensity to numb and block pain. The day before he had been plied with purgatives that emptied and purified his internal systems and had his channel packed with concoctions of the numbing potions that had been withdrawn mere hours before the ceremony.
Winston and his escorts approached the center of the longhouse, where an altar had been placed and covered with a blanket made of laced-together red fox pelts.
All of the adult men of the tribe were gathered in a circle around the altar, At the outer edge of the circle were the elders and the older unselected warriors, dressed in their usual leather breeches and jerkins. The only difference in their dress on this special ceremonial day from any other day was their long, black hair. Whereas a Shewan tribesman's hair customarily was tied back in a ponytail, with a feather in the band, now every man's hair was hanging loose below his shoulders. The torches lighting the ceremony were lodged in the ground behind this outer circle of men, which included much the greater number of the men of the tribe. At the four geographic points of this circle sat a set of two drummers each, maintaining a steady, slow beat to mark the duration of the ceremony.
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