Colonel's Treasure

Inside the greater circle of older tribesmen were twelve of the youngest, most fit brave candidates of the tribe, young men who had achieved their manhood only since the defeat at the hands of the Huron in the spring, newly minted men eligible to be fully blooded warriors but not yet initiated.

And standing next to each of ten of these young warriors was an older, fully blooded, peak-condition warrior. When Winston's two escorts had led him to the altar and lifted him on top, they went to take their places next to the remaining two novitiates.

The twelve most worthy warriors, identically attired to Winston save for the sheathed knives, were the twelve selected to carry out Otetiani's plan to aid Colonel Hampton—and not only to aid the plans of Colonel Hampton as promised but also to return the Shewan to the full favor of the gods of war.

Standing at the base of the altar, facing it, standing taller than any other, legs spread wide, looking stern and magnificent, was the subchieftain Otetiani, the tribe's war leader. Attired like the twelve of the chosen, he stood with arms crossed and leather hand whips, with multiple leads, dyed crimson red, held tightly in each fist.

At a signal from Otetiani, the two warriors who had escorted Winston into the longhouse vaulted gracefully onto the altar. They raised Rob to a standing position and moved him to the center of the altar. On either side of the altar here, strong tree-trunk poles rose from the ground up to the top of the barrel-roofed longhouse, serving as part of the frame of the structure. Each of these poles had a chain wrapped around it at the height of Winston's shoulders. The warrior on each side of Winston attached the end of the chain on each side to the ring in the leather band at his wrist and pulled it taut, so that Rob's arms were stretched out fully to his sides. There were chains lower on the poles that they similarly attached to the rings at the side of his leather belt. Winston now was held in a standing position at the center of the altar with little give of movement in either direction. The two escort warriors hopped back off the altar and took up their station beside their designated novitiate.

At a signal from Otetiani, the drums changed their beat; the warriors began a chant, one that had been prescribed for this phase of the ceremony by the dying chieftain, Nadie; and clouds of incense rose from the fires set under open vents in the sections at either end of the longhouse.

Otetiani opened his arms wide.

Swish. The leather strips of the hand whips lashed out in succession. Winston raised his head in drunken, nearly numb recognition of the start of the purifying scourging. Swish. Swish. Otetiani circled the altar, scourging Rob's flesh, arms, legs, back, belly, chest, buttocks, from each side in light strokes that didn't cut deeply but that cut deeply enough to raise welts and rivulets of blood.

Winston remained stoic throughout. The ceremony had been explained in detail to him. This was all necessary to Otetiani's plan. Winston couldn't be a soldier for the colonel, but there were things he could do, perhaps things that had a greater impact than a single foot soldier could contribute. Rob was determined to do what he could. And he had been prepared well for the ordeal. He would be in great pain later, when the alcohol and drugs wore off than he would be during the ceremony.

The ceremony of the purifying blooding was complete. Upon another signal from Otetiani, the ceremony of the congress, the actual transferring of the power from the gods through the vessel with the flaming head, began.

The two escorts vaulted back up on the altar, released the chains at Winston's side and loosened the chains at his wrists. He was still tied to the altar poles but each chain now had considerable give to it.

One of the warriors jumped down from the altar. The other one remained. The first to receive the power. The twelve chosen warriors, in succession, and, by prescription in different positions, and on the rhythm of the beating of the drums, consummated a congress with the flaming-haired gift of the gods. The first simply went down on his knees behind Winston's crumpled, scoured figure and pulled the young man into his lap and onto his hard cock and fucked him until the warrior's seed had been planted and the power of the war gods had been transmitted back into his body from the channel of the gift. The fucking had somewhat revived Winston, and the second warrior lay flat on his back and made Winston hover over him, feet and hands flat on the altar cloth and slide up and down on the warrior's pole. The third made Winston stand, folded over at the waist, the warrior supporting him with arms locked around his belly, and plowing him from the rear. The next warrior pushed Winston up on his knees and took him like a dog. With Winston collapsed on his belly from this taking, the next merely straddled his hips as he lay there and rode him like a horse, stroking hard between the young man's tightly closed butt cheeks.

The sixth turned him on his back and mimicked the White missionaries. Then he was pulled back up onto his feet and made to stand facing a warrior with a long, curved cock, who raised one of Winston's legs up the line of his torso and thrust up into him in a standing position. He was taken one of the poles with his legs wrapped around a warrior's waist, and the most solid, shortest of the warriors made Winston wrap his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck and he walked up and down the center line of the altar carrying Winston like a young child and thrusting up into him from below. He was side split from both sides and the most acrobatic of the warriors made Winston stand on his hands and held his thighs as he fucked down into his hole, the blood rushing to Winston's head and momentarily making him faint.

With each congress, the powers was passed through Winston to the chosen warrior, and each warrior was smeared in the blood of the gift that had been raised by scourging. At the end of each congress, Winston sank to the ground in gathering exhaustion while the blessed and empowered warrior unsheathed his sharp knife and took two locks of hair from the flaming head. Three of the warriors were especially blessed and, by being so were designated by the gods to be the subleaders of the raid they had been chosen to undertake. This designation came with the three ejaculations of Winston during the ceremony. The warrior rewarded with this sign of the gods' approval while they were in congress with the flaming-haired gift captured what ejaculate they could and smeared it on their cheeks as a special sign of favor.

After each warrior had received the power, he jumped off the altar and went and stood beside his designated novitiate.

When the twelfth had completed his part of the ceremony, Otetiani himself leapt up on the altar. At a signal to Winston's two original escorts, the chains at Winston's arms were pulled taut around the tree-trunk pillar once more, bringing Winston to a staggering standing position.

The drums beat louder as Otetiani bowed in front of Winston and then took the young man's cock in his mouth and just continued giving it suck until Winston had his fourth ejaculation and Otetiani had received the full force of the gods' approving nectar. Then Otetiani stood and moved behind Winston and pulled the young man's suspended body into him. He lifted Winston straight up with hands on his waist, crouched a bit to get under him and lowered Winston on his gigantic, throbbing tool for the transferring of the gods' power. As he did that, the two escorts stepped up to the side of the altar. Each took one of Winston's ankles in his hand and pulled Winston's legs back, around Otetiani's heavily muscled calves. Otetiani held Winston's torso close to his with one palm on his belly and one on his breast and took Winston in long deep glides, the rapidity and depth of the thrusts increasing with the increase in the tempo of the drums.

After Otetiani has spouted forth once, he had the escorts release Winston's ankles and then the chains on his wrists, and Otetiani gently let Winston down on the red fox pelting on his belly, without withdrawing his embedded cock. He covered Winston's body closely and gently rocked on top of him until once more aroused and then he took one last extract of power in a gentle fucking through thighs tightly encased in his own.

While Otetiani was completing the ceremony and taking his lock of the flaming hair, the short, secret segment of the ceremony was performed. Only Otetiani and the twelve chosen warriors had been told of this, concluding part, the initiation of the novitiates. As Otetiani was lowering Winston to the ground for his second taking, he signaled to the twelve, each of whom turned to the designated novitiate beside them, knocked him to ground and overpowered him.

Each blooded warrior then passed on part of the power of the war gods he had acquired by taking the novitiate's virginity by force, but, more important, lifting him up to full warrior status, and, in the end rewarding him with one of the flaming locks of hair they had taken from the gift of the gods. A privilege of this magnitude came only once in several generations. But for many drum beats, the confused, surprised, and initially angry strugglings of the prideful young men, heretofore not told that no warrior in the tribe reached full status with his virginity intact, reached a decibel level that surely could be heard down at the stream, as hard tools relentlessly dug out the last vestige of their innocence. What they were yet to find out was that they would be mastered again and again for the next three nights as part of the chosen warriors strength preparation for their mission.

The drums suddenly stopped. Loud trilling could be heard from the banks of the stream below, and the ceremony was complete.

Winston spent the next three days in a separate longhouse, recovery from the ordeal he had agreed to undertake to serve his struggling revolutionary forces, while Otetiani and his twelve chosen, now anointed and empowered warriors, prepared to go on the warpath—and the twelve newly deflowered initiates recovered from their manning into the tribe.

* * *

"Here, I have a present for you." The senior English Indian scout, Otetiani, lifted the bundle off of the back of the pack horse like it was a peddler's sack and dropped it on the ground just inside the doorway into the log shed Colonel Reginald St. John was using as his temporary office and bedroom while the stockade and permanent buildings of Fort Oswego were under a quick reconstruction. General John Burgoyne, St. John's superior officer and the strategist for the coming British Canada arm of the Central Campaign, had ordered the Oswego fort to be fortified better before it was left on minimum garrison.

All eyes had been on Otetiani as, unimpeded, he walked the horse by the Huron chief's encampment just outside the stockade wall, through the central gates, and up to St. John's quarters. The missing sections of stockade fencing here and there didn't escape Otetiani's attention, and he permitted himself a private smile at his good fortune. The ceremony had worked; the gods of war were with them.

St. John, stripped down to his breeches and having been in the process of shaving himself, toed the bundle on the floor hard. The bundle rewarded him with a grunt of pain.

"What do we have here, then?" St. John said, the tone of disdain clear in his voice. "And why do you bother me with this?"

"I thought you would want to be the first to interrogate the aide to the American colonel, Seth Hampton."

St. John's interest was piqued by that news, and he put his razor down on the wash basin on the stool and wiped the remaining lather off his face with the cotton towel that had been hanging around his neck.

"Let's get him up, then."

Otetiani crouched down and undid the canvas sacking around his prize, revealing a much-bedraggled Rob Winston, tied roughly with rope at wrists and ankles.

"Hang him up on the hook on the center pole," St. John directed.

Otetiani did so. The hook was high enough to cause Winston to have to stretch his arms high up along the pole. He was facing the pole, his back to the two men. Otetiani untied the young man's ankles in the same movement he used to push Winston against the pole, hoping, with success, that St. John either wouldn't notice or didn't see any reason to comment on it.

"And you found him where? You just snatched him out from under Hampton's nose?"

"I found him in the forest, outside the Americans' camp. He said he was escaping, that he wanted to turn himself over to the English, that he had things he could tell your forces about the Americans' troop strengths and locations."

"And does he speak? Do you speak, young man?"

"Yes . . . Yes, I speak, M'Lord," Rob answered, although he barely whispered.

"You say you were coming over to the British to help us? And why should I believe that?"

"He mistreated me, M'Lord. He treated me cruelly. I had to leave. I hate him; I hate them all."

"And why is that I should believe that, my little friend?"

"Look at my back and my legs. All over, M'Lord. There's proof enough."

"Likely story," St. John said with a sniff.

"That part seems true, My Lord," Otetiani said. "I've seen the marks myself."

"The marks?" St. John pulled up the back of Winston's jerkin, to reveal the welts and cuts across his back.

That's when St. John's cock started to take interest. He'd heard that the American colonel, Hampton, liked his young men. He hadn't heard he liked to treat them this way. St. John, on the other hand, very much liked to treat young men this way. His urges in this direction, in fact, were almost uncontrollable.

"That will be all, Otetiani. I think you can find the mess tent. And you can tell my clerk that you are to receive the usual amount."

"Yes, My Lord," Otetiani murmured, and he backed out of the hut and left the camp directly, visiting neither the mess tent nor the colonel's clerk. He had preparations to make and plans to change. His plans could be simpler now, because of the construction under way on the fort and the missing sections of stockade fencing. As he left, he cursed the prick of an English colonel under his breath. Otetiani hadn't anticipated that he would be thanked or rewarded for bringing him this treasure from the American camps. And he hadn't been wrong.

Inside the hut, St. John's hands were trembling. He could hardly keep his hands off this one. And there was no reason why he should have to. He could use him, interrogate him, and then dispose of him.

"You say Hampton did this to you all over?" St. John asked, coming up very close to Winston's back.

"Yes. If you don't believe me, see for yourself."

He hadn't really needed the invitation. St. John shucked Rob's breeches down his legs to the ground and pulled the young man's moccasined feet out of the breeches. It was true. There were welts and cut marks on the young man's flanks and his buttocks and thighs and legs.

St. John couldn't resist. This was this colonel's weakness. He touched his fingers to the line of welting on the young man's flanks. He was breathing heavily, and his cock had gone rock hard almost instantaneously.

"M'Lord?" It was almost a whimper.

"Shut up," St. John commanded in a harsh, husky whisper. St. John ran one hand down a flank and the other up Winston's back under his jerkin, following welt lines.

"M'Lord!" Rob said more sharply.

"I said shut up. You are in no position to object. I own you now. I can decide whether you live or die." The breathing was very heavy. St. John was beyond control now. The welting was just too delicious. The young man's body just too desirable. He took his hands away from Winston's body but only so that he could unbutton his breeches with one hand and lean over and scoop soapy lather out of his shaving mug with the other.

"Not a word," he hissed as he started to rub lather into the crack between the young man's butt cheeks.

"Ohhh," Rob murmured in low tones.

St. John moved the bulb of his hard cock into Winston's crack, through the gobs of lather, and the young man went tense and moaned.

The colonel prepared to thrust past the young man's defenses, but he gulped in air in surprise when, as his bulb breached Winston's sphincter muscle, the young man's channel tightened around it and drew his cock inside the warm, moist channel. Using every trick he'd learned in the Savannah brothel, Rob set his ass channel walls rippling over the colonel's cock, pulling it deep inside him and making love to it with the muscles inside him.

"Ahhhh," St. John murmured, his fingers not being able to resist continuing to track those lash marks on the young man's body. "You are a catamite, aren't you? You're no casual lay. You were Hampton's prostitute. You have experience."

"I was his pleasure, yes, that's right, M'Lord. But no catamite. I'm a full grown man. And I was his to release his tension, by arrangement with my master in Savannah, yes. But there was no agreement for him to treat me this foully, sir."

St. John was moaning louder than Winston was. He'd never had his cock massaged like this inside a man before, and those lovely welts on his flanks and thighs and back and belly and chest. The colonel's hands were moving everywhere, finding lovely ridges to follow everywhere.

"M'Lord, I've come to you of free will. I have information I can give you. And if it's a proper fucking you want, you only need release me. You have a bed over there. I can please you as you've never been pleased before. You couldn't be fucked better in London."

Colonel St. John was lost.

St. John laid on his back on his bed, Winston straddling him above and reversed. Winston gave St. John's cock a sucking like he'd never had before, while St. John dug at the cut lines on the proffered butt cheeks in rotating motion right before his eyes, smeared rivulets of blood across the luscious orbs, and rubbed fingers across loosening rim and into the channel of rippling muscles. After a tantalizing eternity of this, Winston turned and lowered his hole onto St. John's erect phallus and started the drawing in, sphincter clutch, and massaging wall treatment all over again as he rotated his hips around and around, and St. John moaned and groaned and cried out in ejaculation.

The colonel held Winston prisoner in his quarters and mostly in his bed for the next three days and nights. The young man was chained to the bed, which, fortunately for him, was still within reach of the colonel's camp desk, during the day. At various times during the day, St. John questioned the young man on the disposition and strengths of the American troops in the Mohawk Valley, and Winston told him what he thought St. John would believe and would be dismayed by if he tried to take advantage of. And at night, the colonel would bind Rob's wrists and hang them high on the center pole and lash his back and buttocks with a riding crop until the colonel's cock was rock hard and then either fuck the young man there or drag him back to the bed.

Rob was picking up some useful information during the colonel's absences to check on the stockade construction, but he hit paradise on the third day when a messenger from General Sir William Howe, commander of the eastern army of the British Central Campaign forces, both arrived with a message to be sent on to General Burgoyne and left before the colonel even knew he'd been there.

Rob identified himself as St. John's aide and said he'd give the message straight away to the colonel unopened. He'd managed all of this with his arm behind his back and not revealing that he was chained to the bedstead.