This story was authorized, and assistance provided, by pueros. Thank you Peter, both for his excellent original story, and for the support in my writing of this segment.

A follow-up to "White Arrow," about an English boy who became an Oneida and later a Mohawk brave.

This version does not contain White Arrow's loss at the hands of his captor. I am writing an "Author's Cut" that will include that segment.

As Peter [or depending on timing, both of us] has not yet determined the later plot line, I felt it best to keep the youth's loss out of the current primary story line.

YC

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(Schenectady [now in upper New York State, U.S.A.], North America, May 1689)

The English colonists set out in their covered wagons from Schenectady, intending to establish a new settlement somewhere upstream along the Mohawk. They were following a trail forged by earlier pioneers to the region through the thick forests that skirted the river. However, they never reached their intended destination as, one month later, their train was attacked by Oneida Indians. There was only one survivor of the attack, a baby boy.

(Mohawk Eastern Woodlands [now in upper New York State, U.S.A.], North America, Autumnal Equinox 1702)

At noon, the 13 year-old Oneida brave was escorted from the stockade to the place of his scheduled dreadful death and began his death dance and song, recognizing that he would now spend five terrible days before being allowed to begin his journey to the land of his ancestors and great tribal spirits.

(Mohawk Eastern Woodlands [now in upper New York State, U.S.A.], North America, July 1702)

White Arrow had been hunting deer with his admiring friends when he had been taken captive by a Mohawk raiding party. He had been captured by Running Buck, the 20 year-old leader of said raiding party, so named for his speed and gracefulness when afoot, who had swiftly overtaken the smaller brave and promptly subdued him.

Running Buck had instantly recognized the lad, as there was only one Oneida brave so young and so fair featured. He made sure that White Arrow was not badly injured, before securing his foe to the horse, binding him hand to foot.

They both knew that the young brave would die at the end of a long ceremony, of which White Arrow was to be of central importance, after spending several days on the Mohawks' sacrificial platform before being allowed, long after he was ready, to cross-over to the land of his ancestors and great tribal spirits.

Running Buck was particularly pleased to have been the one to capture the brave now helplessly tied to his horse, as it was this boy, still so young, that had killed his father. Running Buck's father, one of several Mohawk raiders that the Oneida brave' arrows had killed, died when the arrow that was so accurately dispatched by the lad's bow had pierced the heart of the Mohawk warrior leading the raid. The raiding party quickly retreated from White Arrow's village when their leader collapsed to the ground.

Looking down, Running Buck, observing that his captive had quickly and completely regained consciousness, could not help but notice the beauty of the light-skinned lustrous bottom lying before him. He now sought to humiliate and degrade the young Oneida brave that he had fortuitously come upon earlier in the day. As they rode back to his village, Running Buck repeatedly brought his hand into stinging contact with the lad's magnificent bumcheecks, significantly warming both his hand and the gorgeous twin orbs before him and giving them a deep crimson hue. The 13 year-old brave had endured the hurt with fortitude, deliberately biting his lip to prevent himself uttering a cry and trying with all his might to hold back the tears that wished to flow from his young sensuous blue eyes. He did not want to shame his people by showing cowardly emotions whilst the blows from his enemy's hand rained down on his bottom.

The young man had not been attracted to fellow males since he had passed through the usual temporary inquisitive homosexual phase of boyhood, almost ten years earlier, when he and some friends had enjoyed the pleasures of mutual fondling and masturbation. Since then, he had chased girls and now had his own squaw and child. Nevertheless, the sight of the delicious fair backside on the helpless 13 year-old below him had caused stirrings in his groin. He had therefore decided that it was his right to alleviate these sensations by causing another type of pain to be inflicted on the boy's posterior. The act would also make unnecessary the use of his hand to gain daily sexual relief and would nicely add to his captive's sense of shameful degradation. It would take over a week for the members of the raiding party to return to their own village and the captor now proposed in the interim to enjoy the lad every evening, when they camped overnight amidst the thick woodland.

That night brought further humiliation and degradation when Running Buck, after much consideration, decided to deflower the boy's previously virgin sphincter, the first of many intrusions the boy's sublime posterior would be subjected to during return to his captive's village that would take over a week. Adding to his humiliation, as his breechcloth was being removed, his long, slender, hairless, uncut cock, often unruly of late, was soon nearly horizontal, and with only slight manual encouragement from Running Buck, soon attained fulsome erection, slapping the boy's nicely muscled abdomen, its tempo matching the beat of his heart, one that was now expected to be stilled all too soon. Before that was to happen though, his now rampant genitals were to be slowly, painfully, detached from his presently immaculate and unmarked form.

As the boy's organ quickly responded to his ministrations, Running Buck looked forward to the day he would be removing the beautifully-shaped organ, and the equally nice masculine equipment below it, from his enemy's body, as vengeance for his father's death at the hands of his captive. His complete and agonizing emasculation, at the hands of his delighted captor, was the first of many excruciating mutilations that were to be visited upon the brave and now stoic and increasingly humiliated Oneida warrior during his sacrificial ceremony.

As the boy lay splayed on the moss covered stump, secured bound to stakes, hand and foot, Running Buck pressed his large rampant cock against the 13 year-old's superlative virginal sphincter, before pushing forward. As he felt his captor's member press against his rear opening, the boy tightened it in an attempt to keep the invader out, momentarily successful, before the 20 year-old pressed further. Then suddenly, as the younger brave felt an intense white-hot pain tear through him, the Mohawk entered previously untouched Oneida territory.

Slowly, as he repeatedly entered and withdrew from White Arrow's now de-flowered rectum, the older warrior picked the tempo, reveling in the sensations emanating from his steel-hard organ, plowing the boy's exquisite posterior. While the boy was first subjected to exquisite pain, soon, to his bafflement, the pain was slowly overcome by intense pleasure, culminating in his depositing a copious amount of semen on the stump beneath him, this having been on brought on by a similar amount deposited inside his posterior by his despoiler. In the morning, as the Mohawks were preparing to continue their homeward journey, the young captive found himself further humiliated when the Mohawk noticed the boy's shameful results from his previous night's sodomizing of the Oneida youth's heavenly rear orifice had produced.

On the second night's encampment, as his ankles were being secured to the stakes, in preparation for a repeat of the previous night's activities, his delectable cock stiffened painfully within the confines of his breech-cloth, instantly pointing upward as the sole garment fell to the ground when the tie-string was set free. More debasing for him, though, was his body' response, as Running Buck, running his hands up the youth's delectable bumcrack, shuddering as his captor's hands caressed him gently.

By the time the raiding party entered Running Buck's village, the lad found that the pain he initially suffered during his de-flowering had faded. Though still viewing the sodomy degrading, he did recognize that he derived much furtive pleasure from the nightly debasements.

(Mohawk Eastern Woodlands [now in upper New York State, U.S.A.], North America, Autumnal Equinox 1702)

White Arrow's leadership of the repulsing of the raiding party and his prowess with the bow had earned him considerable renown within Running Buck's village and many of the other Mohawk communities. This reputation was now expected to be the cause of much greater anguish for the resolute boy, his agonies to be extended over five days of exquisite torture rather than the usual three.

As the beating of the Mohawks' drums slowed and the volume lowered, White Arrow, his form painted with various sacred symbols, finished the first of the several death chants that he would sing during the prolonged, excruciating ordeal. The brave young warrior then resolutely climbed the stairs up to the platform, unescorted, to his waiting vengeful captor.

During his dance, he had let his breechcloth drop to the ground below, presenting his slender, uncut, alabaster, ivory-hard vertical penis to the assembled Mohawks. Now, Running Buck, viewing the fulsome erection and the low hanging sac with its twin orbs nestled within, again looked forward, with great delight, to the pleasure he would derive from slowly, painfully, separating the gorgeous genitals from their present owner, in due payment for the death of his father at the hands of the boy now standing naked and aroused before him.

The boy turned and faced Running Buck and the rest of community assembled before the sacrificial platform, then stood and looked directly into his foe's eyes as the older brave lifted the boy's precious necklace of wampum beads off the younger brave's neck and placed it on his own.

Despite that, or perhaps because, they were adversaries, Running Buck, aware that the boy knew the exquisite agonies he would soon be enduring, found himself admiring the solemn bravery the lad presented to the attending crowd as he readied himself for the sacrifices that lay ahead, before joining his ancestors and the great tribal spirits of the Iroquois peoples.

The 13 year-old Oneidan next stepped back and splayed his arms and legs, allowing the 20 year-old Mohawk to bind him, spread-eagled, to the tall vertical posts that stood on either side of the lad. With his hands and feet thus bound, White Arrows endangered genitals stood out very vulnerably, especially the low-hanging sac and the highly prized testicles within, much to the delight of his tormentor. His twin eggs, to be removed by Running Buck's well-honed knife, as the last of the agonies he was to endure on the end of that first terrible day. Because of the boy's renown, they were now highly prized, and would be used to create powerful potions that would be used to cure numerous sexual ailments.

Before the first of his ordeals was to commence, White Arrow would watch, for almost two hours, from his degrading position, as the Mohawks now enjoyed the meal that was customary before beginning the sacrificial rites that the boy would soon agonizingly endure with much bravery.

The noisy repast complete, the village members reassembled in front of sacrificial platform and Running Buck returned to face White Arrow, a switch in hand, made of a long, very thin tree branch, to commence the first of boy's ordeals.

The 13 year-old tensed as he felt the older brave place the switch against the boy's superb posterior as he prepared to land the first blow. As he heard the switch cutting the air behind him, he resumed his chanting. He continued his chant as the first of the many biting lashes landed, a sharp sting coursed through the young brave's sublime buttocks. Over the next two hours, White Arrow did his best to maintain his brave chanting, though more and more often he found himself yelping, and later, crying out from the exquisite pain induced by the blows, landed with slow deliberation by his captor. When Running Buck was finished, the boy's formerly immaculate form was covered with innumerable cuts, already taking on a dark hue, many with a sanguine flow dripping from them. Even his delectable genitals had not been spared and now a white-hot agony flowed from them.

Because of the smoothness of his now crimson organs, the boy would not be subject to having each pubic plucked out one-by-one, none having yet come in. It also meant that the next torture would be visited upon his now tortured form without delay.

The Oneida brave continued to look into the face of his tormentor with a steely determination and the Mohawk warrior found himself admiring his captive's fierce bravery. As two other braves alighted the platform and his captor departed, the courageous youth continued his chanting.

His new tormentors inserted a long thin wood sliver diagonally into the flesh under each of his delightful nipples and both ends of each were lit, to be allowed to slowly burn down to the center, sending more exquisite agony coursing through the boy's chest, then slowly forced a similar sliver thru each side of already tortured ball bag, a loud shriek emanated from the brave's throat, it now showing the first signs of hoarseness, but it was quickly squelched and chanting was yet again resumed by the now greatly suffering lad.

He was allowed to stay like that, the awful pain surging thru his bruised. bleeding, and tortured form, until the approach of dusk. The wooden slivers in his chest had finally burned out, roasting his nipples as they had burned from each end.

The 13 year-old Oneida brave now lived in a world of white-hot agony, no longer aware of his surroundings, no longer conscious of anything other that the exquisite torments that wracked his entire being. Time no longer existed, only the suffering. Though thoroughly exhausted, so great was the pain that sleep escaped him as the night passed. Finally, near dawn, the pain was overtaken by exhaustion, and he drifted off to a fitful sleep.

Near noon on what became his day on the platform, White Arrow awoke as a bucket of water finished drenching him, bringing some semblance of recognition of his present dreadful status, even as the torments inflicted upon him again enveloped him in a renewed haze of excruciating agony. He knew, even through the haze, the further agonies to be visited upon his once-beautiful form.

As his vision slowly returned, still clouded by his exquisite pain, he saw his adversary standing before him and started his silent chanting, tensing in anticipation of the next torment that would be inflicted upon him.

But it did not come.

As White Arrow's vision cleared slightly further, he was now deeply confused by the sight before him. Surrounding his chief tormenter were the tribal elder, another brave, the squaw he had previously bedded and that now carried his child, and another, older squaw. Finally, as a second bucket of water drenched him and brought him further into consciousness, he became truly aware of the Mohawks around him. He had little time to make sense of the squaws' presence before a cup of water appeared before his lips in the hands of the tribal elder.

As several cups of the clear life-giving fluid were allowed to slowly flow down his throat, the suffering boy, his mind still shrouded by the exquisite torments of the past day could not comprehend the scene before him, incongruous at it was.

Finally, the tribal elder proceeded to speak to him, much gesturing adding to White Arrow's final comprehension of the sight now before.

As the tribal elder continued, the boy now started to understand the presence of the others arrayed before him. He learned that his chief tormentor was named Running Buck, the other brave and the younger squaw, the one he had bedded, were Running Buck's younger siblings, Clever as Wolf and Graceful Doe and the remaining squaw, Stern Owl, elegant in her carriage, was their mother.

The elder continued, appraising the suffering lad of why the day's expected tortures had not commenced. The 20 year-old Graceful Doe, now bearing his child still found the eligible Mohawk suitors unworthy of her, not when she saw the stoic bravery that the boy displayed during his exquisite tortures. Seeing such bravery, she had decided that, and even though he was an Oneidan, that he should be her suitor, and with her mother's vocal support, asked that the village adopt him.

That morning, as White Arrow, engulfed as he was in agony and exhaustion, fitfully dozed, the villagers had gathered to hear the women's request. Ultimately, they prevailed, but only after more than an hour of vociferous, often heated, discussion.

What was being proposed still was quite something that White Arrow was not quite willing to accept. He was to become the young squaw's husband, a member of the village, and most important, a Mohawk. They were his adversary, he had killed a number of them, some from this village, yet now, he was to be adopted by these people, become one of them.

In the weeks before, even in mounting the platform and surrendering to his fate, he had done so to retain his honor and that of his people, the Oneida, in knowing that such a display of bravery would allow him to cross over to the lands of his ancestors and the great tribal spirits.

Now...

Now, he didn't know...

It meant living. Living with his adversaries, but with them, among them, as one of them. To do so, would that be dishonoring his ancestors and spirits?

Yet...

He paused. It was not the agony that he was enduring, not the torments that he was due to endure. It meant becoming a Mohawk, upholding his honor with them should he become one, even though he might meet his fellow Oneidas in battle. To White Arrow, that would be far harder than any torture he now faced.

Yet...

This woman wanted him as her brave, to raise the child together that he had sired. His child. Of all of the braves in the village, she had chosen him, the only one not a Mohawk. To her, he alone was worthy of her companionship.

But it was his child, their child, that he thought of most. He remembered his times of joy with his parents. Now that he might share that same joy, could he refuse?

In the end, it was this, what he could share with his child, not his honor, that was of highest value. As he had always done, he chose the course that was the most giving.

He chose, in that moment, that he would raise his child as a Mohawk, that he would be a Mohawk. He knew it would be the tougher road, to risk battle with braves that had been his friends, but, for him now, with a child to come, it was the only choice... the only truly honorable one.

His voice not yet back, he nodded his assent. He would become a Mohawk. As honorable as he had been as an Oneidan, he now be as a Mohawk.

Now, now he would be removed from the platform. With his skin still afire from the previous thorough whipping, it would be as exquisite an agony as the whipping itself had been.

His ankles were first unbound and eased back to the platform deck. He remained so, his wrists still bound while his legs slowly regained their function. Running Buck, formerly his chief adversary, now only begrudgingly accepting the brave boy into his family, was in no hurry to rush his adopted brother's release.

With his feet now firmly on the deck, White Arrow was left by the older brave in this still demeaning position for an hour before returning to finally release the boy from his remaining bondage. He was handed his yet-again freshly cleaned breechcloth only to discover that his loins and posterior were far too enflamed to accept the wearing of it after his redemption.

It would be some time before he could bear the touch of it. Or much else.

As he led down the step, the members of his adoptive village surrounding him and chattering among themselves, none of which he could yet comprehend. As he walked stiffly among them, a thought came to him, one of his new life as a Mohawk, learning their language. In spite of the pain, it drew a smile to his face. He was led to a deep pool where he could soak, in bliss, until dusk.

Ironically, it was now that he again started to suffer from much excruciating pain. He was led back to his new family's lodging for the night. A soothing salve was gently applied to his still-agonized form, eliciting many suppressed groans and yelps.

While Arrow was kept standing for most of an hour before the salve had been fully absorbed and he was guided over to a bearskin to lie down for the night. Though it had been thoroughly soaked, the contact was still agonizing. The squaw bearing their child, his squaw, soon to be his wife, stayed awake beside him as he fitfully slept, making sure his skin was kept moist during the night.

In the morning, when he finally rose he was fed where he sat. For the next ten days, as the fire contained within his glorious form was slowly extinguished, he would spend as much time as he could stand soaking in the pool. Within that time, his skin regained much of its former immaculate beauty.

As he soaked in the pool on that first full day of release, he suddenly became aware of voices around him, boys' voices. He opened his eyes to the sight of carousing boys, six, all around his age, entering the pool to join him.

Cavorting around, splashing each other, they started splashing him. In spite of the pain he was still suffering, White Arrow was soon cavorting with them. The boys, none yet having been awarded a breechcloth yet, treated the 13 year-old as a best friend, not one whom had come among them as a captive, an adversary.

In their approaching him now as a friend, the boys were following an Iroquois tradition, that of tribal adoption, often offered to captives, and had the "Rite of Adoption" which contained one or two days of agony for boys or men over 12, and more simple assimilation of the girls. More than a few white children, having been adopted by a village refused rescue when attempted, and a number of those forcibly rescued freely returned to their tribal villages soon after they had been released by their rescuers. The agonies visited upon the men, white or native, were second only to those that White Arrow had originally been destined to endure. The agonies were not intended to inflicted death, unlike the Sacrificial Rites, but to allow the adoptees to show the villagers his bravery, wherein the Sacrificial Rites were to allow an adversary to show his bravery to the spirit on way to join them.

During the time of White Arrow's adoption, the "Great Law," the Charter (or Constitution) of the Five Nations of the Iroquois (the United States Constriction draws heavily from the Great Law, a reading of which will quickly prove) had not yet been envisioned yet by the Peacemaker (so revered is he that it is considered without honor to speak his true name) and strife among the nations was commonplace, adoption of another nation's brave was still rare.

Upon the founding of the Iroquois League, the Five Nations (later Six) could instead concentrate on attempting to stem the onslaught of white invaders. It was in this period too that adoptions, especially of women and girls, but often including boys (white men were hardly ever adopted during this period) rose greatly, much of it to offset the deaths caused by exposure to the measles and smallpox viruses. American natives did not have any antibodies to these as they had only arrived in the Western Hemisphere with the arrival of the first European settlers.

As the boys played and cavorted, they still were careful not to make contact with White Arrow, for all that would have happily grabbed, hugged, and tickled him, they understood that such contact, pleasurable for them, would still be agony for the 13 year-old Mohawk warrior, his skin now slowly recovering from what had become his Rite of Adoption.

It would take little time for the new youngest village brave and the other similarly-aged boys to form strong, durable bonds that would carry the group through the numerous perils they would later encounter together. Later, they would also spend much time together exploring each other, often in vary intimate ways. This would remain true on hunting trips, even as each took on a squaw, as they would be apart from their squaws for the duration of the hunt, often much of the summer. Most of his boys would not receive their breechcloths until the summer of their 15th year and none of them took a squaw unto them until they were 17, thus it was that the boys, as they entered adolescence, still were only intimate with each other for a number of years to come. Even White Arrow, who now had a squaw, would remain much more active with his circle of friends as he was to find that it was more enjoyable than when he bedded his squaw, not that he found that un-enjoyable.

(Mohawk Eastern Woodlands [now in upper New York State, U.S.A.], North America, Summer Solstice 1703)

At the Ceremonial Feast of Mid-summer, the youngest of the Mohawk village's braves, now 14, was thinking of how kind the spirits had been to him for the bravery he displayed to all, human and spirit alike, that previous fall. Cradled in Graceful Doe's arms was their two week-old baby boy. All in the village had been taken instantly by the baby's obvious beauty. Though his features drew from both his parents, his most noticeable features were from his father, his brilliant blue eyes and light blond hair. His other noticeable feature was his skin tone: a light honey copper tone that reflected his heritage well, a color that would later let him fit in with either the Iroquois or the settlers with equal ease.

As Graceful Doe rocked the child gently, Arrow could not know just how important his sou would be in later years, or that, expecting his child would never have any siblings, could possibly know just how wrong he was. At the moment, all that mattered was there in his wife's arms. He was right, the great spirits had truly blessed him.

To be continued...