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After his capture, Benjamin is locked in a pillory that has been freshly hewn. The wooden bars that clasp together above and below his wrists and neck smell of the forest still, and splinters prick him as they feather away from the new wood. His skin chafes at those points as he tries to get one hand, just one free, but the British soldier who has been set to watch him notices him wriggling and bashes the butt of his musket right into Ben's nose.
He blinks the blood from his eyes and feels it drip from his chin in long, thin strands. It collects on the ground beneath him, dusty in the lonely field. The pillory had been constructed as usual in a very exposed, public place, and the fact that its low height forces Ben to bend at the waist is also not surprising. But Ben has never been pilloried and so is not expecting the extreme discomfort that the position gives his back and legs. He shifts from foot to foot, glad that those at least have been left unbound, until his guard barks at him to keep still or risk another kiss from his weapon.
So Benjamin stays still, hanging in his wooden prison.
It's humiliating. It's meant to be.
He does his best to keep his eyes open and looking for any information that might help his cause if (when, his mind assures him) he manages to escape. But beyond the band of redcoat scouts that had overtaken him on the road and his current watcher, he has seen no British troops. If there is an encampment here, it is hidden behind the long, low barn that sits several hundred yards in front of him, and so he cannot even count their tents or bonfires to estimate their numbers.
Washington will not be pleased that he has no report. Once he escapes.
It begins to rain lightly. The blood washes from Ben's face, and he is left shivering in the late evening's chill. The redcoat, of course, seeks shelter beneath a nearby oak and watches Ben from the short distance.
Ben's uniform becomes heavy with rain. He blinks a few drops from his eyes and shouts at his guard, "Is this your famous British civility? To leave your prisoner to nature's whims?"
"We do not often have such delicate prisoners that cannot survive a little rain," comes the sneered reply.
Ben holds his tongue. He is restrained and without a weapon; it would be foolish to protest further. He rests his neck in the harsh cradle of the pillory and lets his eyes close in the rain. Sleep doesn't come, but he dozes as best he can.
He jerks back into wakefulness at the first touch to his hip. It has stopped raining and is only miserably damp. He can't see who's behind him (when he turns his head the pillory's boards block his view) but he can hear the chuckles, deep and low.
"They say he's a spy," says the British voice. "Not a nice position for a spy to be in, I reckon."
Ben's breeches are jerked down to expose the curve of his ass to the chilled air. "Look here—" he says, but is cut off by a slap to the back of his thigh. He yelps in surprise.
The laughs come again, louder now.
"He's pretty," says a different man.
"All of Washington's whores are," says a third.
Ben's face burns unseen behind the pillory. As if General Washington would ever touch him, though he's dreamed about it in his lonely bedroll. Nevertheless he can't let such disgusting slander against his general phase him. He bites his tongue and does not respond to the slight. The soldiers will have their fun taunting him, he thinks, and then they will leave him be for the night.
But Ben is wrong. He realizes it too late, when he feels blunt, dry fingers searching roughly in the cleft of his ass. "Do you think he's still a tight fuck, or has the general ruined him?" one of the soldiers says, amused.
Ben jerks in his wooden prison, trying to shy away from the soldiers behind him, but of course there is nowhere to go. The pillory keeps him firmly in place and the frantic back-and-forth dance of his hips only serves to provoke more howls of laughter at his predicament.
"Look at him! Shaking like a leaf!" Hands hold him tight by the hipbones, hard enough to bruise. The fingers prod at him again, and a fingertip breaches him with much care for gentleness. Ben makes a sound then, a low whimper of discomfort, but that's all that escapes before he presses his lips firmly together. He will not cry out. They are only doing this to make him cry out, and he will not let them win.
Still, that one small sound brings forth a new wave of jeers from the men behind him. "Even his noises are pretty!"
"Let's have him then," says one man, and Ben's spine stiffens at the sound of very starched uniform cloth rustling.
"Why should you get him first?" whines another. "It was me that brought him down from his horse. I should get the first go at him."
This sets off an argument among the assembled about what sorts of favors are owed to which soldier, and while they bicker, Ben trembles in his pillory. His eyes dart helplessly into the dark field in front of him, but he doesn't see anything or anyone that might offer help. If he could just get his hand free— If he could be certain of where he was, he could maybe shout but—
In the end, the soldiers draw lots. Ben has to listen to them comparing their hastily marked bits of paper, their grumbling about bad luck, the whoop of triumph from the winner. He fights to stop the shaking in his frame, but the air is so cold, and the touch of the stranger's hand on his bare hip is so repulsive.
"Don't," Ben says. He can feel fingers at his hole again, prodding. One last appeal. He won't beg, but he can try to appeal. "Don't do this. Civility demands—"
"Oh, shut up with your civility," the man says, and shoves his finger in up to the knuckle. It's dry, it's painful, and Ben has to muffle his cries under a bitten lip.
"He'll take the skin off my cock like this," the man complains to his compatriots. "Don't we have anything slick?"
Ben hears one of the men work up a mouthful of spittle. He braces himself, but the warm, wet feeling of spit dribbling down his crack still makes him jump. It doesn't ease the way much, but the man currently violating him just hums philosophically. "Better than nothing."
Ben has never been touched before, by woman or man. He's not sure what to expect, but he reassures himself that this will be yet one more rank horror of war, and he is very familiar with those. He has managed to live through other trials. He will come out of this alive.
The redcoat fucks into him with no finesse. It's pain, Ben is almost relieved to discover. Only pain. He can survive pain. Just as when he's been stabbed or shot, it's just a trick of putting the mind elsewhere and thinking of other things.
But it's difficult to think when the enemy soldiers won't stop chattering away. He hears them as he's driven into again and again, rocked back and forth in the creaking pillory.
"Tight as all hell," grunts the man currently seated inside him. "Lord, it's good and tight."
"Maybe he's not one of Washington's whores after all," says another.
The third scoffs. "Or maybe the bastard just uses the boy's mouth."
Unseen by the group of attackers behind his pillory board, Ben's eyes go wide. They wouldn't. They can't. He'll refuse if they try.
"Go on, then," a redcoat says. "See if he sucks a good cock."
"You do it. I want his hole."
More bickering ensues. Ben feels droplets of sweat running down his temple, his neck. His teeth clench so tightly he can hear them grinding.
At last one of the redcoats is pushed around to the front of the pillory. Ben tries to ignore the frenetic cock plunging in and out of him, and he raises his head to look up at this captor. He's got red hair but Ben can't make out any other features in the dimness.
"Open up, Major," he says, and unfastens the buttons on his breeches.
Ben purses his lips and drops his head, a defensive posture of refusal. The soldiers just laugh at him.
"What are you thinking? That's not going to work here." The redcoat draws his unfixed bayonet from his belt and holds it under Ben's chin, using it to lift his head back up. Ben lifts it rather than risk the tender skin of his throat being cut. He breathes hard through his nose and glares up at the man with defiant hatred.
"Don't pout," the redcoat says. "Just do the job and nothing will happen to your pretty neck. No biting, now, or I'll cut you open." With his free hand, he takes his cock out, a straining, purple thing.
Ben balks out of instinct. The blade sinks into his throat, a thin line of pain flaring brightly. He stills and so does the bayonet.
The man fucking his ass joins in the cajoling. "Come on." A thrust. "Take your medicine." A thrust. "Like a good whore."
The drooling tip of the Redcoat's cock taps against Ben's lips, like it's knocking to gain entrance. Ben stifles another whimper, this time of disgust, and slowly opens his mouth. The soldier pushes inside in an instant, making Ben gag. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes as his throat fights for air.
"Ah, he's crying now. Sobbing like a baby." The man fucking his mouth reaches down and takes him by the hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking him even further onto his cock. Ben chokes, a frightful sputter that causes another frisson of laughter.
"Do that again," says the redcoat taking his ass. "He clamps down like the devil when you do that."
The man in front of him does as asked. Ben's hands scrabble for purchase on the pillory but of course he can get no leverage. He can only hang in his wooden shackles and feel the cock thrusting in his ass, and the one in his mouth, and hear the slap of two sets of balls against him.
His eyes shut tight as more tears leak out.
Then the man behind him grunts, thrusts as deep as he can go, and stills with a groan. Ben winces. He can feel the rush of come leaving him, dripping down the inside of his thighs as the soldier pulls out.
"Who's got next?"
A chorus of voices answer, and Ben pales when he realizes there's not just three redcoats. From the voices he hears clamoring, there are at least four, maybe five or six. He can't take that many men. It's not possible.
The cock in his mouth leaves briefly, its owner jacking it roughly inches in front of Ben's nose.
"Don't—" Ben tries to say before the blade at his neck falls away, and then man, holding him firmly by the hair, comes onto his lips. Ben sputters and tries to turn away but his jaw is grabbed and squeezed. The pressure forces his mouth open, and one more bitter spurt lands on his helpless tongue.
"There. We fed the prisoner," the redcoat says, and laughs as Ben spits and coughs to rid himself of the horrible taste.
"Well, don't let him go to waste. Get on him," someone else chimes in, and Ben feels a new set of hands on him, spreading his cheeks wide.
This cock slips in a little more easily. It's the come, Ben realizes. He's slick with the first man's seed. He feels sick to his stomach and tries to think of other things.
But thoughts of reports he'll need to write once he's free and back in his own camp are chased away as the soldier in front of him steps away to be replaced by another. This time Ben doesn't wait for the bayonet. He opens his mouth, eyes downcast, face heating with the shame of it. The redcoat laughs and gathers some of the stray come on Ben's face with his fingers, shoves them in Ben's mouth. "Suck them clean," he orders, and Ben does. The fingers go and a cock takes their place, and Ben sucks that too.
It becomes a blur. The man behind comes in him, the man in front leaves his mark all across Ben's face. He gives Ben a slap on the cheek as a parting shot, and it stings especially where the rifle stock had hit him earlier. Other men take their turn. Ben is used again.
Another load of come is shot down his throat, and when Ben is done gasping for air, he looks up to find the first man who'd used his mouth, the redhead, standing before him once more.
His eyes must go wide with disbelief at the man's hard cock, because the redhead just chuckles and shakes his dick in Ben's face, saying, "I think I'll have another. It was so sweet the first time."
Of course. These men aren't much older than Ben. They might be able to come two or three times in a single night. The idea that Ben might be had over and over makes hope wither in his chest.
Worse still, a hand snakes underneath his hips and gropes at his own cock. He jerks with a yelp, the pillory boards clacking with the movement, as he's fondled, his balls rolled together, his cock jerked roughly.
"He likes it!" one redcoat chortles as Ben's erection hardens against his will.
His face burns even hotter. Now he's not sure he'll be able to survive this humiliation.
The redhead grabs him by the chin, teasing his cockhead along Ben's lips. "That's right, whore. Tell us how much you love being fucked."
"Yes, make him say it!"
"Say the words, whore!"
Ben blinks rapidly. More tears fall, tears of frustration, of pain. He can't say it. He won't. It's a matter of pride.
"Go to hell," he bites out.
A fist cracks against his face. He's sure to have a black eye in a moment, he can feel the skin swelling hotly.
"Say you like our cock," the man roars. "Tell us how much you enjoy being taken. How you'll fuck the entire brigade if we let you!"
Ben manages to speak through the pain, gritted out between his teeth. "No."
The bayonet is at his throat. A cock keeps pounding into his ass. Ben swallows. Maybe he should just let himself be killed. Keep his pride. But after all this, what good is pride? He'd promised himself he would survive when this all began, and if he gives up now, it will all have been for nothing. He won't beg, not even for death. But he'll have to do this.
He opens his mouth. "I like it," he says, barely more than a whisper.
The redhead redcoat's bayonet presses closer. "We can't hear you."
"I like it," Ben says louder.
"What do you like?"
"Being fucked by redcoats," Ben says. "Being a whore."
"Again." The blade hurts against his Adam's apple.
The words fall out of Ben's mouth like they don't belong to him. "I want to be fucked. I love it. I'm a whore for it."
"That's damn right," the redcoat says, and shoves his cock into Ben's numb mouth.
They take him a few more times, some men finishing inside him, some coming on his back or his face. One decides to come in his hair, smearing it filthily into his queue. Ben takes it all, even when his legs give out and the soldiers have to lift him by the hips to keep him aloft, Ben doesn't beg. He feels the hot seed on his skin and tries to put the sensation out of his mind.
Just when Ben thinks this must be the end of it, that the hot jet of come on his ass must be the last, one soldier says, "Why don't we get him out of the pillory? I want to have him on his back. I can't see the dumb fear on his face like this."
Ben blinks slowly at the words. He's so tired, his body a mass of aches. Another fuck will kill him, he thinks, but he does want to be free from the pillory. He's been in it for hours now.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," says one.
"Why not?" says another. "He's weak as a kitten. It's not like he'll be able to run away."
They finally agree to unlatch the pillory to let their comrade have one final fuck from the prisoner. Ben nearly falls to the ground when the boards are removed from his wrists and neck, but several hands catch him and bring him down to the damp earth. They arrange him on his back, remove his boots and breeches, both soiled with sweat and come. They take his blue coat too, leaving him in nothing but his shirt and vest. Ben lays there, panting for breath, staring up at the lightening sky. It will be dawn soon.
He wonders if he'll see the sun rise.
His limbs are useless, sprawled in the dirt and too painful to move. It's only with what feels like the last of his spirit that Ben turns his head to look at the man coming to kneel between his spread legs.
It's the redhead. Grinning.
"Now that you've got all that seed in you," he murmurs, "this will be as easy as—"
Ben moves fast. His hand darts to the redcoat's belt, grabs his bayonet, and twists it into the soft belly before him. The sickening noise of the blade parting flesh squelches through the air. The soldier's breath stops on a gurgle.
The other redcoats seem to be stunned into silence, frozen where they stand around Ben. By the time they move, Ben has stabbed one in the leg and scrambled to recover the musket from its spot against the oak tree. He finds the strength to crack one soldier over the head before turning and seeing the rest flee for the woods.
"Cowards!" he screams after them. His body buzzes with the rage to fight, though he doesn't understand why three strong men ran in the face of a single injured one. Then he hears a voice behind him.
"I believe they saw me, Major, though I'm sure you're formidable on your own."
Ben whips around, musket still in hand, to find an officer standing there in his regimental gold and red. A small braid of blonde hair dangles from his queue.
Ben squints. "Andre?" He'd been following the man's moves and countermoves for months, but had never actually faced him before. Ben hurriedly recovers his breeches, attempting to pull them on one-handed while still keeping the musket trained on his enemy. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving you from that band of scouts." Andre nudges the toe of his riding boot against the redhead's body, slumped on the ground. "But it looks like you had everything well in hand." He holds his hands up. "No need for weapons. I didn't come armed."
Ben laughs, bitter and almost hysterical. "You don't need weapons when you command men who will do what they've done to me!"
Andre drops his hands and looks at Ben with sorrow in his eyes. "I never ordered my men to do this. And I swear to you, when I find the lot, they will be hanged. I won't give them the dignity of the firing squad." He reaches for his pocket, and Ben hoists his musket. Andre pauses. "I only wanted to offer my handkerchief. If you would like it."
Ben imagines he must look awful, his face covered in streaks of drying seed and blood. He drops his weapon, suddenly too tired to hold it anymore. "I would," he mumbles before slumping against the oak and sliding to sit on the ground with a groan.
Andre approaches his his handkerchief and moves as if to wipe off Ben's face himself, but at Ben's flinch, he says, "My mistake. Here." And holds it out for Ben to take.
Ben scrubs at his face while muttering, "I won't tell you anything, so if you plan on torturing me for information…"
Andre sighs. "My official report on the matter will state that I came upon my scouts abusing some unknown farmboy who escaped into the woods after I came upon the scene. I can't provide you with a horse, but if you need food and water, perhaps some clothes—?"
"You're letting me go?" Ben stares at him. "Isn't that treasonous?"
"I'm merely setting the chess board to rights," Andre says. "Nothing more. Our little cat and mouse game will continue, but the game has rules." He looks off toward the woods. "My men broke those rules. And for that I'm truly sorry."
"Sorry," Ben repeats.
"I know it's cold comfort, coming from the enemy but damn it, man." Andre shakes his head. "Let me do at least this." He holds out a hand and waits.
Ben is so very tired and weary. He's not sure he'll be able to stand, let alone walk all those miles back to camp. But he's survived so far. Why not a little longer?
He takes Andre by the hand and allows him to help Ben to his feet.