Snow Owl Comes of Age
- 3 years ago
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Snow Owl: The Widow's Cabin free porn video
I leaned back in the metal tub when the widow returned to the barn. Chill bumps raced across my body at the sight of her. I had never seen Anne wearing less. A simple drawstring white shirt covered her. She had returned with a heavy wooden bucket, a bottle and a towel over her shoulder. At six-foot-tall, she had to be the tallest woman I had ever seen, whether Indian or white. My Comanche brothers would never take such a woman as their own, but strangely I liked tall women. I liked her red hair too. Even though she was a settler I had come to like her steadiness and wit. Most white women I had met since becoming a warrior were as nervous as chickens with a fox in their pen; not Anne.
“I am going to clean that wound,” she declared for the second time this afternoon. “You got hurt bringing us a deer. A Christian woman does not shirk her obligations. Something you might not understand.”
“I have honor,” I barked. “I am of the People.”
“Yes, you do, Snow Owl. I respect you but living among heathen’s does not give you a reference point to my religion or our beliefs of right and wrong,” she responded with a warm tone. “My cousin Hannah and I might be outcasts, but we still hold to our faith.” She put the bucket down and placed the towel on a barn wall hook. “That water is dirty now. I’ve hauled this here kettle water to warm you up and clean that bear claw wound on your ribs.” She rolled up her sleeves revealing her porcelain skin beneath, and then picked up a block of soap from the bucket.
The lingering scent of her perfume mingled with the smell of lye soap. I liked her smell too, I thought.
“Stand up,” she commanded. “After surviving, cleanliness is important, especially with wounds.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered. She saw my expression of pain but did not comment, saving my dignity. Her tenderness reminded me of my birth mother. She was dead but I remembered her red hair and full bosom, which was another reason I had a weakness for this woman. Anne had a plain face that was rich with freckles, green eyes and breasts that could smother a child. I tried to conjure up my birth mother’s face but failed.
I stood up. Modesty was not an issue with Anne. She looked over my nakedness the same way I judge horse flesh, slowly and unhurriedly. She was like Comanche women that way. However, something told me this trait might be another thing that made her strange in the world of the whites. The Shoshone thought Anne and Hannah were “touched,” which was not necessarily crazy—rather spiritually dangerous. Their dead husband’s ghost was said to protect them and any that harmed them would suffer from his evil spirit. I did not know why their shaman had declared that over the Shoshone council fire, but I had heard it directly from my father. Thus, it was true, so our tribe respected our ally’s wishes. Our Chief had made it my job to keep an eye on them, explaining, “You are half-white, so evil spirits are less likely to trouble you.” His wish was no surprise since none of our other warriors liked traveling near that cabin.
Ann looked troubled. She cleaned the long claw wound. I shifted uncomfortably. She examined the blooming bruise on my side which was the size of two fists. “You were lucky that you scared off that bear and he did no lasting damage,” she commented.
“It was a small bear,” I joked, wincing from her probing fingers.
Ann nodded, her eyes still not believing me but letting it go. She crossed her arms over her chest, unwittingly presenting her breasts in a more favorable light. “I have to get the rest of that dried blood off too,” she mumbled.
“Some of it is the deer. I was dressing it when the bear came out of the heavy rain...”
Ann shut my story down by applying the soap to my wound. I gritted my teeth.
“Yes, yes, the bear didn’t see you and was only following its nose,” she interrupted. “Let us talk about something else while I clean you up. My husband was a trapper. I heard all his tales of calamity, over and over. Dark or white, all you men sound alike when boasting,” she commented, washing my entire chest.
“I only told you the story once,” I defended. She laughed as if I was making her point.
She washed my neck and face with the tattered cloth before dipping it back into the bucket of warm water. “I will not shut you off again. I apologize for my bad manners. I have known you a year and you were not one to repeat stories. It just got me remembering my departed husband. Hannah and I miss him sometimes more than others.”
Water splashed her shirt revealing her nipple through the material. The little peak disappeared as she walked around me and scrubbed my back. “Don’t think I’d do this for any man. Hannah and I appreciate the occasional meat you bring us. You are as respectful as any white man. Not that there are any civilized folk around here, which is a blessing and a curse.”
I do not want to hear about curses, I thought.
She reached around and grabbed my manhood, washing it with equal vigor as anywhere else she had cleaned. I swear she lingered longer than necessary. To reach, she had to press against my back. The tingle in my length showed she was positively affecting me. Dropping to her knees she washed my bottom and the back of my legs. By the time she moved to my front, my brain was scrambled from all her touching and my monstrously hard rod was poking out straight, inches from her face. I looked down at her and she flushed madly but made no comment on my excitement. Instead, Ann washed the front of my legs for several minutes. I did not mind because the front of her shirt was soaked and her breasts were visible, along with her hard nipples. The drawstring on her husband’s shirt had worked itself loose, so much was on display.
When she cupped my balls again and then began washing my erection, I held my breath. She rubbed up and back, while her eyes examined it more closely.
“Hannah and I have come to a decision. When we saw you drop that deer in front of our porch, and we caught sight of your wound it shocked us. Your injury reminded us of our husband’s death, and a ferocious discussion about his legacy,” she explained. I did not say a word, because she continued to stroke my length at a loving pace. I did not care how much she rambled. “We have come to depend on your meat. Of course, we fish in the river and we garden but that is not enough. Hannah is Hannah. She has loneliness and heartache that has grown since Wilber’s death. We have told you before we will die before willingly leave this homestead. Yet, there are things that would brighten our world again. You can help with one of those precious wish list items. Hannah has even proclaimed that since you’re able, and the only white man around, that it is our duty as wives to continue our husband’s legacy. You would not believe how pig-headed she can be when she thinks something is morally right.”
Anne looked into my eyes tightening her hand even further while providing the unexpected comforting pleasure. I nodded that I was still listening, which was a half-truth. I was overdue for some relief and felt bottled up. Not much mattered at the moment but her warm hand and the thought of her lips on me.
“Hannah wants a baby,” Anne whispered. Her words made me lose my balance and I stumbled out of the tub, catching myself from falling by thrusting my arm out against the wall. I groaned at the shooting pain in my side.
“Hannah wants to have a baby?” I questioned.
Anne rushed me and put a hand to each side of me on the wall. “No, I am much younger, being only twenty.”
The shock of her words had not worn off by the time Hannah walked into the barn carrying bandages. She was wearing her usual black high-necked dress. She was a middle-aged, stout woman of average height, big boned, a lean package rather than fat. Anne’s cousin’s mixed ancestry gave her a darker skin tone. The thirty-something woman had once told me her mother was Spanish. Hannah’s long, black hair was down, which was a rare thing.
“You look so much better now you are cleaned up,” Hannah said in a kind voice. “While Anne has everything in hand, I have gathered your dressings and come to assist.” She grabbed the bottle next to the tub and stepped forward to hand it to Anne. “Anne, he will get cold soon, best finish the task.”
It surprised me that Hannah acted so casual, normally she projected a more formal tone and posture. She seemed oblivious of Anne’s unease. With her arrival Anne’s face and chest had turned bright pink. The interruption quickly reduced the blood flow below my waist. Even with Anne’s body temporarily blocking most of Hannah’s view, I felt awkward. It was not that I expected Hannah to feel unnerved by my naked presence, because I was already accustomed to her odd social behavior. No, it was Anne’s embarrassed reaction that triggered my white mother’s training about nakedness. Indeed, defaulting to the moral standard that had been impressed upon an eight-year-old boy troubled me.
After Anne took the offered bottle, I was lost in those thoughts until she uncorked it and poured it into my wounds. I howled in pain. The firewater stung and burned my senses with a prolonged stinging that had me hopping around. Both women pushed me to the wall and Anne continued applying the liquid until she was satisfied with all the claw marks and cuts were treated. I glared at them with indignation. Neither took umbrage at my anger. Hannah quickly took charge and wrapped me in the cotton material. Anna tied the dressing off.
My clothes forgotten, Hannah and Anne guided me the short distance to their wooden cabin. Naked I followed the crazy women because Anne had lit a fire in my breast that I wanted quenching.
We climbed the extended porch, passing between three rocking chairs and entered the log cabin. Inside was a new world for me. I had never been in their domain before. The front porch had been as far as they had allowed, until now.
The cabin smelled of a mixture of herbs and cooked deer. Just inside the thick door, many herbs hung by strings. A single lantern lit the main room with a fire going in the hearth, and with the streaming window light from above, we could see well enough. In fact, the main room was brighter than I had expected. Seeing a wood floor surprised me too, all the cabins at the fort had hard-packed dirt floors. The cabin had an unusual design, stairs rather than a ladder providing access to the bedroom above us. From the bedroom balcony, they could look down into part of the main room. Also, glass windows were located on the second story too. Most cabins had a loft and first-floor windows, but almost never glass. Their deceased husband had more or less built a fortified blockhouse with a stylish interior. The man had been part practical and part indulgent to his wives. The cabin was set overlooking a ridge, so I expected the view of the forest was pretty impressive. It was a practical lookout post from which to see the mountain trail below.
In the center of the room, a well-crafted oak table with a rich silver-setting of knives, forks, china plates, teapot, and teacups waited for us. I had only seen such a thing in a restaurant as a child in Chicago. On the frontier, it was an unimaginable sight. The rest of the room contained pine furniture, so the kitchen table was a prized possession.
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