by J. M. Snyder
Brance moved from one over-sensitized nipple to the next. Caleb squirmed beneath him, gasping at the teeth that bit his swollen teats erect. His hips thrust up from the ground and his dick poked Brance in the belly, eager for its moment in that ardent mouth. His body felt alive for the first time in years, focused on the sensations that pleasured him, with a heightened sense of awareness that his human form never seemed capable of achieving. He wanted to savor this moment, draw out the leisurely tongue that strolled along his torso, stretch out the passion that energized his mind.
Finally Brance's beard brushed against Caleb's pubic mound. His cock swung up to meet the feverous lips that closed over the tip. Sure fingers wrapped around his shaft and tugged, working him harder. They cradled his balls, then eased between his legs to strum along puckered skin. Caleb tugged at the grass, pulling fistfuls free as he writhed against Brance. As his erection slipped from Brance's mouth, the man took a moment to suck his thumb, wetting it to ease entry. Caleb whimpered, watching those gaunt cheeks work around the man's own digit the way he desperately wanted them to suckle at him. "Please," he sobbed, so close now, so damn close...
Repositioning himself, Brance took Caleb's dick into his mouth again as his thumb smoothed along trembling flesh to find the tight hole at the center of Caleb's being. With Caleb's cockhead butting up against the roof of his mouth, Brance ran his tongue along the slit in Caleb's dick with short, fast strokes that promised a quick release. One hand milked his shaft, squeezing and kneading and begging him to come; the other caressed his nuts as the thumb wriggled into his ass. When the large appendage cleared his sphincter to bump against his prostate, Caleb let out a lustful sound that ripped from his throat like a bobcat's primal cry. His cock spasmed in Brance's mouth as the man drank him down, devouring his seed.
At some point, Caleb's mind cleared and he heard labored breathing, heaving pants that startled him when he realized they were his own. Strong hands held him against a broad body; damp lips rested on the back of his neck, just below his hairline. Caleb still felt Brance's hard cock butting up against his backside, but when he reached for it to offer release, Brance swatted his hand aside. When he found it again, tracing the length to its tip, Brance caught his hand and laced his fingers through Caleb's to keep him from playing with it. Half-turning in Brance's embrace, Caleb started, "I just wanted--"
"Hush." Brance's breath tickled his bare skin.
Caleb suspected perhaps the tender moment between them was the gruff man's unconventional way of saying thanks. What a way to show your appreciation, he thought, curling into Brance's arms. He felt sheltered with this man, he felt safe, as if Brance somehow shielded him from the harsh reality that threatened to shatter this post-coital peace. Between his legs, his cock still hummed from Brance's ministrations. When he tried to find the words to explain the whirlwind within him, nothing came to mind.
The only thing he knew was that he never, ever wanted to let this moment go.
* * * *
He slept again; when he opened his eyes, the sunlight had shifted and he now huddled alone under a worsted blanket. Stretching awake, he turned to find Brance sitting nude on a dead stump not far away. The man looked coarse in the morning light, his hair disheveled, his beard a tangle of thick, russet curls. A haversack rested beside him, open--Caleb saw blue dungarees folded inside, and the familiar cans that contained army rations. In one hand, Brance held a dented coffee tin; in the other, a large cracker that he nibbled. When he noticed Caleb was awake, he grunted in greeting.
Scooting closer to the man, Caleb kept the blanket around his legs, not yet willing to lose the warmth trapped beneath it. Brance watched him, his light eyes unreadable. When he was close enough, Caleb reached out and ran a hand over the puffed hair still covering the top of Brance's left foot. He nodded at the haversack as he clutched the blanket around his waist. The markings inked into the haversack frightened him--U S. "Where'd you get that?"
Brance sipped at his cup, which Caleb suspected held only water. "Why'd you think the soldiers shot me last night?" Half to himself, he muttered, "Damn bobcat in their tent."
"A Yankee camp?" Caleb asked, too quickly. Brance's gaze shifted to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is it far?"
With a chuckle, Brance bit at the hardtack. "I wouldn't tell you."
Caleb scooted nearer, into the span of Brance's legs. With his back against Brance's knee, he raised a hand to stroke the man's inner thigh. The touch earned him another grunt, undecipherable, but given their earlier intimacy and the fact that Brance didn't brush him away, Caleb let his fingers play. He strummed up Brance's thigh, then leaned his head against the man, his chin pressing into the wild hair that began just below the slight paunch of Brance's belly. He turned and kissed tender skin that fluttered at his touch as his hand homed in on the fat length dangling from Brance's crotch. The man's cock was like a thick sausage, the same size flaccid as it had been hard and ready in Caleb's hand. When Caleb traced its length with his forefinger, it jumped beneath his touch like a soldier scrambling to salute. Caleb pinched the bulbous tip, earning him a moan from Brance, then closed his fist around the limp flesh and tugged slightly. The dick moved in his grip, interested, but Caleb just held it, not ready to give up Brance or his manhood just yet. With a nod at the cracker in Brance's hand, Caleb asked, "Can I have a bite?"
It took a moment for Brance to respond; his eyes had glazed over, lost in Caleb's touch, and the shift from animal sensation to human thought was almost a physical change. He shook his head as if to clear it, then scuffed his feet and cleared his throat. When he held out the hardtack, Caleb opened his mouth to take a bite but Brance pulled it back. "I ain't feeding you," he growled. "Take it."
Caleb ran his fist up Brance's shaft until his hand pressed against soft pubic hair, then moved down again to the cockhead. "I've got my hands full." He opened up again, tongue out and eyes closed, trusting. Waiting.
After a long moment, he heard the cracker snap. Then a small, salty section touched his tongue, placed there by a large finger that Caleb closed his lips around before it could get away. As the cracker dissolved in his mouth, his tongue swirled around Brance's fingertip like a promise. Let me give you this and more, he thought, savoring the feel of the man beside him. His hand squeezed Brance's cock, eliciting a moan from above. A gentle thumb stroked his chin.
Then the thumb pushed against him; the finger between his lips pulled out. Abruptly Brance stood, knocking Caleb away. When Caleb reached for him again, Brance stepped back. He busied himself with the haversack, pulling a change of clothes from its depths. As he stepped into a worn pair of pants, he told Caleb, "It's getting late."
His voice sounded harsh and unused. With quick movements he tucked himself into the open fly as he buttoned the pants. Caleb stared, confused--was it only him? Was he the only one who hungered for more between them, who ached for this man? "Brance--"
"Get up."
Caleb complied, wrapping the blanket around his waist as he stood, partly to keep out the chill but also to hide his own budding erection.
Annoyance flickered across Brance's features. "Where are your clothes?"
With a shrug, Caleb suggested, "Back at my camp?" He hoped Brance didn't ask him where that was, exactly, because he didn't know himself. Over a deadfall, somewhere. East maybe, a little south, he wasn't sure. Distances were different when he wasn't in his fur. Helplessly, he watched the other soldier dress--he'd never felt so exposed, despite the blanket cinched around him. Why couldn't they get back to the part where they were both naked and hard, each aching for the other? What had he said or done to lose that? As Brance shouldered the haversack, obviously ready to move on, Caleb tried again. "Brance, look--"
Suddenly he found himself staring down the cold bore of a large pistol. Brance held it out at arm's length, keeping him at bay; the man's thumb rested on the hammer, ready to shoot. His eyes hardened as if he no longer recognized Caleb. "Don't dare follow," Brance said softly.
Caleb's mind whirled with a myriad of emotions--anger, confusion, lust. "Can I see you again?" he asked, hating the eagerness he heard in his own voice. The gun meant nothing; it was one soldier's way of keeping an enemy from finding his camp and meant nothing between creatures such as themselves. Caleb was sure of it. He'd held this man in his arms, tasted him as both human and beast; he knew Brance in ways he knew no other. He sounded desperate but he didn't want to lose this opportunity to connect with a similar soul. "Please?"
Slowly Brance lowered the gun. He crammed it into the waistband of his pants, a makeshift holster. Then he stepped up to Caleb and raised one hand to his face. Caleb flinched, but Brance only traced the curve of his jaw, then lifted his chin until they faced each other. Again, his eyes were unfathomable--Caleb wished it were night and they had changed, if only because then he knew what went on behind that pale gaze.
Tenderly Brand touched the dimple in Caleb's chin. "Don't follow me," he whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."
Caleb nodded quickly, eager to please; then Brance kissed him, his beard itchy against Caleb's hairless chin. As that sure tongue licked into him again, Caleb's eyes slipped shut and his hands went limp, the blanket falling in a heap at his feet. The touch on his face disappeared, followed by the mouth on his. He sighed and kept his eyes closed as he listened to the faint sounds of Brance slipping away into the woods.
* * * *
It took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, but Caleb finally stumbled upon his discarded shirt, half-buried in mud and covered with paw prints. He picked it up, shook it out the best he could, and slipped his arms into the shredded sleeves. The buttons were gone. Pulling it shut across his chest, he untied the blanket around his waist and tucked the shirt down, then reknotted the blanket. The shirt was cold and damp; the fabric stuck to his back, clammy in the shadows. He'd need to see the sutler about a new shirt when he got back to his camp--the major would pitch a fit if he saw Caleb wearing this rag.
As Caleb retraced his route from the previous evening, his mind inevitably circled back to Brance. Like a bad cold, Caleb couldn't shake him. The man infected his thoughts; the memory of his hands and lips and mouth was a ghost that lingered to haunt Caleb's skin. A big man, rugged, not the type Caleb normally liked, but there was something untouchable about him that dogged Caleb, something unattainable that promised pleasure and so much more, if only Caleb could catch hold of it. How easy would it be to lose himself in a man like that? To give himself up wholly to him? What would it be like to chase the moon and stars with Brance at his side? How fast would they run, how far would they go? Could they outrace this present strife, put their pasts behind them, and move into a future where their hearts and souls, human and animal both, became one?
You just met him. Don't put too much on one man.
But this was the only person Caleb had ever met like himself, the only one who knew and accepted him as both bobcat and man. Was it too much to hope that whatever had taken root in him also grew beneath Brance's thorny exterior? He wanted to see him again, soon--tonight. His blood sang out for the man in a way beyond reason, beyond sense. The feelings in him surpassed right and wrong, beyond North and South, deeper than love or hate. His every instinct wanted to succumb to Brance, in every way he could, however the man asked.
Tonight, he'd race from his camp on four legs and sniff out the bobcat's spore. He'd pounce on the cat like a kitten, playful and demanding. When Brance tried to hold him down, Caleb wouldn't hesitate to raise his tail and present his ass to be ravished. And when they changed back in the morning he'd offer the same, bending over to let the man claim him completely.
He could hardly wait.
* * * *
Caleb found his pants in the bushes near his post, where he'd shucked them off after his transformation. Once again, the seam down the back had split to allow room for his tail when it grew. Looked like the rest of his day would be spent mending his uniform. He pulled on the pants and tucked the torn seat between his buttocks. If he clenched his ass cheeks and walked carefully, he might be able to make it to his tent without mooning the rest of the camp.
The blanket, he left in the forest, folded neatly into the crook of a tree. The color alone gave away its origins; he'd find it hard to explain how a Union blanket had suddenly come into his possession when there were no dead or dying Yanks around from whom to swipe it. He ran a hand down his backside one last time to make sure the pants were firmly in place, then stepped out from the trees, a nonchalant whistle pursing his lips.
As he approached the camp, that whistle died--three soldiers stood at his post, rifles leveled at him. "Hey guys," Caleb called out, raising his hands slowly. "It's just me."
One of the pickets whispered his name, then shouldered his rifle and took off at a dead run through the camp. Caleb chanced a step closer, only to have the other two pickets tighten their grips on the guns. "Stop right there, Chilson," one warned.
The other spat on the ground at Caleb's dirty, bare feet. "Filthy deserter."
Too late, Caleb realized how things looked. He'd abandoned his post, disappeared into the woods...he was lucky he hadn't been shot on sight. For the second time that morning, he faced the business end of a gun, and didn't care for it one bit. "Listen, fellows--"
The picket who'd left came racing back as if General Lee himself bore down on him astride Traveler. "Major's tent," he gasped, skidding to a halt at his post. "Orders. Now."
One of the rifles prodded him. Caleb recognized its bearer as the soldier who had clapped him on the back the night before. "Jack, is it?" he ventured. "Look, I didn't desert. I came back, didn't I?"
"That's why you ain't dead yet," Jack growled. With a jerk of his rifle, he indicated that Caleb could enter the camp. "You heard Miller. Don't keep the major waiting."
Like a condemned man trudging to the gallows, Caleb was led at gunpoint to the major's tent. He stopped in front of the closed flaps, but a hard shove of the rifle in his kidneys sent him inside. He tripped and fell, sprawling, to the ground. His legs spread apart, freeing the seams of his pants; they gaped obscenely, baring his ass. Mean-spirited laughter filled the tent. As he looked up, he saw a handful of angry men jeering him. Officers, every one, and in their midst, Major Pennock sat on his bunk like a king on his throne. Before Caleb could scramble to his feet, rough hands hauled him up to face the major.
Pennock was a corpulent man, wider than he was tall, with a bushy handlebar moustache that he kept waxed and neat. The smallest growth of black hair beneath his lower lip told Caleb he hadn't bothered to shave this morning. Despite muddy conditions in the camp, the major's uniform was crisp and clean, a minor miracle. His boots shone, from either polish or daily wear. He held a whip in one hand that made Caleb blanch. Just in case he didn't notice it, Pennock gripped the leather strap in the other hand, and snapped the whip loudly across his lap. Oh God.
Speaking quickly, Caleb stuttered, "Sir, I can explain--"
"I hope so," Pennock drawled. His was a silky voice, seductive, that more than once had lulled a prisoner into believing the major was on his side. Caleb wasn't as easily fooled. "Regulations say I should shoot you in the foot, but maybe twenty lashes would suffice. Make an example of you for the rest of the camp. Can't have them all running away, now can I?"
"Sir, no sir." Caleb shook his head in fear. He didn't fancy any punishment, to be honest. If only he could tell them the truth. How would that sound? During the full moon, I change into a bobcat... That would surely land him in the stocks.
Silence stretched between them like the leather pulled taut in the major's hands. Finally Pennock prompted, "Well? I'm waiting."
Caleb's mind went blank. "Um..."
"Last night?" the major offered. "I heard you said you didn't feel well. Several men saw you go into the woods. What happened then?"
You'd never believe me if I told you. Caleb bit that back; he had no intention of telling the major what really happened. "Last night, y
es," he said, floundering. He hoped eventually he'd stumble onto something that sounded right. "A touch of dysentery, I think. Nothing serious. I ducked into the woods and had to...um..."
One of the officers Caleb didn't know spoke up. "Take a shit?"
The others laughed; Caleb felt his face flush but he nodded, seizing the explanation. "Yeah. That's it. I guess I got turned around out there, in the dark. All those trees, you know?" He looked around wildly, but couldn't meet anyone's eye, let alone the major's. So he dropped his gaze and spoke to his feet instead. "I did my business and was heading back when I realized I...I don't know, I was lost, or something. I thought I missed the camp somehow."
"Wasn't where you left it?" Major Pennock teased. That earned another round of laughs, and Caleb's cheeks burned. "How much did you have to drink while at your post, private?"
"Nothing," Caleb swore. At least that was the truth. "I drank nothing. It was dark, hard to see. I got turned around..."
That smooth voice hardened. "So you said."
Caleb's mind scrambled together a tale. "I was headed in the wrong direction, it's true! I thought I'd hit the camp so I just kept on walking. What else was there to do? Then...then--"
"You turned around and came back?" Pennock shook his head as if disappointed in such thin lies. "Suddenly remembered your way? How convenient."
The whip snapped again, as if eager to bite into his back. "No!" Caleb cried. The words tumbled free before he could think to stop them. "I found something. A Yankee camp."
Surprise widened Pennock's dark eyes. "Where?"
Shit. Caleb shook his head, hating himself for betraying Brance. Shit, shit, shit. "I don't know," he mumbled. "It was dark..."
Pennock stood and crossed the tent, pushing the other officers aside to lean heavily on a creaking wooden table that sat along one canvas wall. Parchment spread across the table, maps and letters and newspapers. The major swept the top layer of paper aside, revealing a map of the area beneath it. Jabbing a blunt finger at the map, he told Caleb, "This is our position. Where is this camp?"
