by James Lear
This was the signal for all hell to let loose, and any ideas I had of enchanting them with my performance were quickly abandoned. Scott, who had been manipulating his huge club of a cock throughout, grabbed me by the hair and pushed me down to my knees. He slapped me rhythmically around the face with his hard member and then started rubbing it against my lips.
“Suck it!” roared the men. I had every intention of doing so, and opened my mouth. Scott wasted no time in getting inside me, thrusting to the back of my throat. My eyes opened wide in surprise, but fortunately the whiskey had relaxed me, and I didn’t gag too much. He pulled out—the head glistened in the firelight—and then shoved it back in again.
There were hands at my backside; I looked around and saw Squire Teavis kneeling behind me, stark naked. There was little I could do, even if I wanted to; my ankles were still bound by my pants and boots. He spat in his hand and rubbed the saliva around my hole. If anyone had to be first, I wasn’t too displeased that it would be him, with his handsome lined face and his steel-gray hair. His finger entered me, and I responded to the pressure by pushing my ass back against it.
A line was forming at both ends—about ten at my mouth, and ten at my ass. It was going to be a long night. Scott was fucking my mouth now with some vigor, and I could feel from the tightness in his balls that he wouldn’t be long coming. Teavis pulled his finger out and replaced it with his cock, which glided up me and was soon buried to the hilt. It was not the first time I had been used in such a way, and I quickly fell into a rhythm and started to enjoy myself. Two men—I could not see who—busied themselves with my boots and, when they were off, removed one leg from my pants, so that I could spread my ass even wider. Teavis never broke his stride for a moment.
Scott grabbed the back of my head with both hands, vigorously fucked my throat four or five times (it was all I could do not to choke), and then pulled out and came copiously in my upturned face. I saw the first huge glob come flying out of his piss slit, then closed my eyes and felt his sperm raining down on my face like lava from a volcano. It dripped down my cheeks and chin and splattered on the ground. What was left he smeared around with his still hard cock.
He was replaced—pushed out of the way, in fact—by Doty, who still had his harmonica in his mouth as he presented his hard cock at my face. Scott had been thick, dark, and veiny; Doty, on the other hand, was long and thin and smooth. His pubic hair, which I could see in the vee of his open pants, was pale and sparse. He took his time, holding his prick back so that I could lick his balls, feeling my lips with his fingers, running the sticky head of his dick around my already wet face. It gave me a chance to catch my breath, for which I was grateful. Besides which, I was concentrating on tightening my ass around Teavis’s dick, which was pumping in and out of me like crazy. I reached around and felt his balls; yes, he too was ready to drop a load.
I pressed back into him, clamped my ass ring around him, and let him thrust into me. At the same moment, Doty slid his slender cock into my mouth—and the sight of that must have sent Teavis over the edge, as he hollered and grunted and rammed himself as far into me as he could go. Doty breathed hard and started fucking my mouth; the harmonica, which he held between his lips, made a strange wheezing music of its own.
Two down, only another 18 to go.
It would be tedious to explain exactly how I serviced the entire camp, and to tell you the truth, after the first three or four had fucked me, I no longer knew nor cared who was up next. I had become a thing to be used, and I loved it.
This went on for an hour and a half, by which time my ass was sore and my jaw felt as if it was going to break. I had been turned over, stood up, sat down, held in the air, and pushed into the earth. My entire body was covered in semen—none of it my own, as I had scrupulously avoided touching my cock, knowing that if I allowed myself to come, as I desperately wanted to, the ride would be much less comfortable. My army of lovers knew this, I think, and made no attempt to bring me off.
Inevitably, no sooner had the last one shot his load than the first was ready to begin again, but this time around they would not be satisfied by the simple pleasures of sucking and fucking. They had all been drinking heavily by now, and needed stimulation of a different nature if they were to continue—as they clearly intended to. I needed a rest, and I wanted my supper, although the several loads of semen that I had swallowed had taken some of the edge off my hunger. But they had not finished with me yet.
“I need a piss,” Scott said, staggering around with a whiskey bottle in his hand. He headed off toward the trees, but Caleb had other ideas.
“Don’t waste it, man,” he said. “The boy needs hosing down.”
I did, it’s true—by now I was far from “nice”—but bathing in piss wasn’t my idea of hygiene. Still, Scott seemed to like the idea, and changed the course of his staggering. He stood over me, playing with his half-hard cock. I lay back on the ground, supporting myself with my elbows, waiting for the first splash. It took a while to come—but, after much vocal encouragement from his peers, he unleashed a torrent of urine on my stomach and chest. It splashed up to my neck and chin, it ran down my sides and puddled in the grooves of my stomach. He finished off by directing the jet straight at my cock, and the force of it nearly made me come. Only by closing my eyes and clearing my mind did I fend off the encroaching orgasm.
“Piss on his ass, boys!” Scott grunted as he padded off to the river. I was picked up by four pairs of hands and deposited in a kneeling position. A booted foot kicked my knees apart, and I fell forward so I was leaning on my forearms. My buttocks were held apart, and my poor hole, raw from use, was exposed to the evening air. I heard someone behind me spit on the ground, and then a stream of piss hit my right buttock. There was some protest from the men holding my ass open, and the pisser—I have no idea who it was—redirected his stream straight to the bull’s-eye. The drumming sensation, the wetness and heat, were too much. I reached back, grabbed my cock, and started to come. I spewed my load over the soaking ground, and fell forward into it, not caring how dirty I got. The last few drops of piss were sprayed over my back.
Young and his companions returned three days later—three days in which I had been fucked repeatedly by every man in the camp—and I expected him to kick up a ruckus when he found out. Instead, as I spilled out my sorry story (I wasn’t sorry a bit, I’d enjoyed every minute of it), trying to sound contrite and avert his wrath, he just laughed, winked, and tweaked my nipple through my shirt. “So, you been playing around with the boys, huh? Good. That’s good.”
I guessed the romance was over. I tried to question him on the subject, to get some notion of his feelings for me, whatever they were, but he was not interested in such discussions. “There’s work to be done, Jack,” he said. “Now you run along and see if any of my boys need sucking off. I need to write my journal.” He tapped the thick leather binding of the mysterious book, which had accompanied him on his journey, and motioned me out of the hut. I found Alamanda Bruce and Thomas Collins finishing off their dinner at the back of the cookhouse, and without waiting to be invited I unbuttoned their flies and started sucking them alternately. They put their bowls aside, wiped their mouths, and simply let me get on with it. When they finished—dark-skinned Bruce came first, deep in my throat, while red-haired Collins preferred me to jerk him off over his pale hairy stomach—they ruffled my hair, said “Thanks, Jack,” and disappeared about their business.
I was beginning to wonder if Young had picked me up merely to be a sucking-and-fucking machine for the men of Harmony, and I thought, on the whole, that while I had enjoyed a delightful few weeks, it was time to move on and make something of my life. Much more of that kind of usage and I was going to start fraying at the edges.
I was pacing the outskirts of the camp, kicking at clods of earth and whacking the grass with a stick, when I heard Young’s voice calling my name. I jumped and ran—I may have resented him, but I still adored him, and I hoped that he was now
ready to give me some of the loving I’d missed while he was on the road.
Young was putting the journal back in its usual hiding place under the bed when I bounded into the room. “Hi, Bennett,” I said.
“Sit down, Jack.” He patted the bed beside him. “You’ve got dried spunk around your mouth. Wipe it off.” He handed me a clean handkerchief. Whatever he had in mind, I guessed it wasn’t one of our usual enjoyments.
I sat, Young stood.
“Jack,” he began, his hands clasped behind his back, “have you ever asked yourself why you’re here?”
“Here in Harmony, or here on earth?”
“At the camp, with me. With us.”
“I assumed,” I said, casting my eyes to the floor, “that it was because you wanted me to be here.”
“Yes, but what for?”
“I thought that was obvious.”
I had the horrible feeling that I was about to be thrown out of the camp, and, more important, out of Young’s affections. Was his desertion of me—for so I saw it—and his willingness to hand me over to the rest of the gang just a pretext for getting rid of a plaything of which he had tired?
“You’re a great fuck, Jack, none better. I’d happily spend the rest of my life with my dick up your ass. But in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war going on.”
This remark stung, as Young had done more than anyone to divert me from my intended path. And, while I had never planned to join the Union Army, I had left home with the intention of taking an honest job in Montpelier and being a respectable citizen. Instead, he had turned me into a cockguzzling camp whore.
“And what have I to do with that? You tell me nothing about your work. You send me into town to buy food and visit the bank. For all I know, you could be a desperate criminal on the run.”
He looked at me with cool blue eyes, as if trying to assess how much I knew. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. After pacing up and down a little more, he sat beside me and put a hand on my knee.
“You know I told you that we work for a government that is beyond the governments in Washington and Richmond?”
“Yes.”
“You know I told you that we are neither Unionists nor Confederates?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Jack, the time has come when we need to test your loyalty.”
“Loyalty to what?”
“Ah, that’s just the thing. I can’t tell you. I can’t tell any of the men. You have to believe.”
“If it’s loyalty to you, Bennett, I’m happy to be tested.”
“Not to me, but to what I represent. The powers,” he said, glancing upward as if he meant God Almighty himself. I began to wonder if Lieutenant Young was, in fact, a raving lunatic.
“Where do these powers…reside?”
“In Montreal.”
Thank God for that, I thought. If he’d said “in the Great Beyond” I would have backed out of the room and taken to my heels.
“Are they…the French?” I had a vague idea, from glancing at the newspapers, that the French were always trying to foment revolution for mysterious, atheistic ends.
“An international concern,” Young said.
“Nihilists?”
“No.”
“Anarchists?”
“No.”
“Liberals?”
“No, Jack. A group of concerned politicians from Europe and elsewhere who wish to see an end to this ridiculous bloodshed. More than that you do not need to know. Do you want peace for your family and friends? Do you want to see your loved ones swallowed up in a senseless war that nobody can win?”
“Yes… No… Of course.”
“Then have faith, Jack.” He put an arm around my shoulders. “You are on the right side.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We ride south tomorrow. You and me. I will explain on the road.”
And before I could ask anything more, he slipped a hand inside my shirt and started to kiss my neck. I was hard in an instant—it was only a short while since I’d sucked two cocks, and I was yearning for release—and the questions that I wanted to ask died on my lips, which were soon otherwise engaged.
IX
ON THE MORNING THAT WE WERE TO LEAVE HARMONY AND ride south into Vermont, a party of some ten young men, desperate-looking ruffians, most of them, arrived in the camp, footsore and filthy from the road. Teavis and Williams hustled them off to a hut by the parade ground.
“New arrivals, Bennett?” I asked.
I was only really interested in them as potential playmates, to be honest, so Young’s reaction was unexpected.
“Always asking questions, Jack, always sticking your nose in. Just keep it out of my business for once.” He prodded me in the chest in a none-too-friendly manner and continued trussing up the trunk of clothes and weapons that would accompany us on our journey. He had been edgy and irritable all morning, eager to get started, and was obviously displeased that I had seen the new recruits, as I guessed them to be, arriving at the camp. But why? Weren’t we all, as he had told me a hundred times, brothers in arms?
It was not the first time I had asked myself questions about Bennett Young and his company, about the nature and purpose of Camp Harmony, but now I had serious misgivings. For whom was I fighting? Who were these foreign powers to whom Young so glibly referred? Where did the rest of the company, with their mixture of accents and complexions, come from? And where were we going?
I had little time to ponder these mysteries. After a quick breakfast of bacon and bread and fresh, strong coffee, Young and I were on horseback, the trunks slung over a mule that trotted obediently behind. There was no send-off. “You’ll see them all in a week or two,” Young said. “Think you can live without being the center of attention for a while?” His tone was not friendly, and I thought it best to let his mood improve with a little riding before I spoke again.
The road south was beautiful, the trees in their fresh green finery, and it would have been hard not to feel some surge of joy as we rode by blue mountains and clear streams, the sun on our faces. And after a couple of hours, Young shook off his gloom and seemed ready to be friendly again.
“Well, Jack, we’ll soon be back in Vermont again. Happy to be going home?”
I had a momentary pang. I had not thought of home—my mother, father, and sisters—for a long time, except in dreams. “I have no home, Bennett, if not with you.”
“Aaah, you’re a sentimental young fool,” he said, mitigating his words with the radiance of his smile. “But we’ll make ourselves a pleasant enough nest where we’re going, if you’re content to stay with me a little longer.”
“You know I am. Where are we going?”
“A little town by the name of St. Albans. Know it?”
I had heard of it, although I had never been there; the northern reaches of Vermont were as foreign to me as California or the shores of Europe. “No.”
“Good. It’ll all be fresh and new, then.”
“And what will we do in St. Albans?”
“We’ll live like gentlemen, Jack.”
“To what end?”
“Your end, if you like.”
I knew Young’s ways well enough by now to realize that he was trying to put me off a subject by tantalizing me with the promise of sex. I was on the point of remonstrating with him—but some little voice in the back of my head counseled caution. If there were things he did not want me to know, it was better that he thought my curiosity a weak, fleeting thing. Whatever I needed to find out, I would discover for myself; Young would tell me nothing. He thought me vain, shallow, concerned only with pleasure. He had good reason to think so. But something—my better self?—was stirring into life again after a long slumber. I made some facetious remark (“I take your point, Bennett,” which made him laugh) and we rode on in silence.
It took us less than a day to reach our destination, and the light had not completely faded when we arrived at St. Alb
ans, just 15 miles south of the Canadian border. It was a smart, prosperous-looking town, less refined than Bishopstown but modern enough with its railway terminus, its manufactories, its long, broad main street lined with stores, houses, and hotels. We announced ourselves at the Station Hotel, the grandest building in town, where Young was both expected and known.
“Ah, Lieutenant Young!” the young man behind the desk said, a bright-eyed, brown-haired boy who viewed me with barely disguised distaste. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to see you, Sam. This is Mr. Edgerton, my secretary that I told you about.”
“Welcome, I’m sure,” Sam said, although his voice belied his words. “You’re in your old room, sir.”
“Good boy. Nice clean sheets?”
“Just how you like ’em, sir.”
Obviously Sam had been Young’s bed warmer on his last visit to St. Albans.
We unpacked in silence.
“You’ve been here before, then,” I said, when curiosity could no longer be contained.
“You know I have. When I left you back at the camp with all your friends.” He laughed and goosed me. The bed looked inviting, but I was in no mood to play.
“The boy at the desk seemed pleased to see you.”
“He’ll be pleased to see my cock, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ah.”
That took the wind out of my sails. I had expected denials, remonstrations, as if I was a betrayed wife who had caught her husband in some sordid adultery with a chambermaid.
“Yes, he’s a good fuck. Almost as good as you, Jack, although a little more… Delicate.”
So, I was sluttier than a desk clerk in a cheap hotel in a hick town in the northern wastes of Vermont, was I? The words were desperate for release, but I swallowed them, and busied myself with my unpacking. I was becoming wary of Young, unwilling to expose myself to his anger or suspicion. I was becoming sly, underhand, dissembling. If only I had become so months earlier.