Gladys
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RebelChapter 84: A Lady free porn video
They called her the "princess" and "duchess" but she really should have been just Lady M-- since her husband was Lord M--, one of the peace commissioner's aides, down from Upper Canada so we were told and parlaying with men from our much-depleted army and from the slow-poke Congress in Philadelphia. They arrived, the finicky lord and his luscious lady did, unannounced, asking to see the camp and talk to some of the officers. Someone obviously forgot to tell us they were coming which was typical of the army where some New Englanders treated Southerners like dirt and visa versa.
The man was a haughty, slim, periwigged patrician who sat his horse well and always looked as if he smelled something distasteful. He was forever picking non-existent lint from his coat and taking snuff from the back of his slim hand. His wife, perhaps a generation younger, had a body that would make a saint weep, a lovely face and a head full of thick, deep ringlets of golden brown. She was a fiercesome beauty, the kind young men dream about and jerk at their members thinking of when they are lonely.
Every morning that they were our guests, well, General Washington's guests really, she went riding on one of the Virginian's hunters, a big horse with good manners and a soft mouth. The first two days she attempted to mount side-saddle, hooking a hidden knee over the pommel and looking ill at ease, but later she rode astride under her flowing skirts, and she rode well. I must admit I wondered if her bare ass and womanly slit were rubbing the leather saddle.
Each day a different officer and two lower ranks rode out with her and came back to spread stories of the officer's failure to even strike up a conversation with the beauty much less get her off her feet. According to our boys riding guard, it was not from want of trying either.
On the fourth or fifth day of this much-talked-about event, I got my turn to ride as one of the casual guards while Lt. Foster was detailed to accompany the striking woman. To call him pleased would be to understate it by a mile. Since our officer had his reputation to maintain, as a seducer of females both old and young, I planned to be a close observer, hoping to either learn from the master or enjoy his defeat. I had never seen him so clean or his uniform so neatly brushed.
We mounted up right after breakfast, while the fires were still smoking and the ground fog lay thick in the woods. Foster adjusted the stirrups for the woman who tested them by posting, smiling at me as she did, her strong legs outlined by the breeze. My member tingled when her gray eyes met mine, and I felt like a shy schoolboy back in Fredericktown looking on the older girls with not-so-innocent longing. My feelings about her certainly not innocent. Only a saint's could have been, and he would have been praying hard.
She kicked the big horse and off we went, tearing up clods of dirt, and skidding onto a narrow trail that wound more or less northwest. George was in the lead briefly, but then the woman and our lieutenant passed him, bent over their mounts' necks and flicking quirts at the beasts' flanks.
"Damn'me," George said, reining up beside me, "ever see the like?"
I shook my head just as George's tired mount put his foot in a gopher hole and tossed his rider, coming up lame. I stopped and watched George brush himself off. "Best lead him back," I said. "I'll try to catch up with them. They can't go like that for long." I kneed my cob and lit out into the patchy fog and onto the scarce trail.
Suddenly Foster appeared on foot, blood on his face and holding his arm. "They got her," he yelled at me. "I'm going back for help. Get on, trail them. Don't lose 'em or it'll be your hide." He disappeared behind me, back where I had left George. I unlimbered my musket, checked the pan and then trotted on down the skinny trail, concluding that my officer had suffered one or more saber cuts.
I saw the horses first and then the knot of arms and legs down off the side of the road. An oblivious officer was standing on the trail, folding his red coat and watching while two British grenadiers wrestled with her ladyship who was doing pretty well in holding her own, kicking and clawing, howling occasionally and showing a lot of stockinged leg and frilly petticoat. All three were grunting hard.
I slapped my horse and rode right into the ensign, knocking him on his ear, scrambled off and laid into the struggling threesome, kicking ribs and bashing heads with my gun stock before I put it aside for my big bayonet. In short order the angry woman was on her feet, straightening her clothes and pushing at her hair while two men lay dead with gaping throat and chest wounds. A few blood spots marred her fancy riding dress and the lace at her elbows. I paused to admire her rapid breathing. She bulged entrancingly, nearly freeing her rich globes from her torn jacket as she bent over and sucked in air, looking up at me from the top of her eyes.
I glanced at her face, saw no fear, helped her up to the road and then went to check on the subaltern in the ditch. He was moaning and groaning, holding his arm as if it was broken. I was about to pull him up when I felt the woman come to stand beside me, using her hip to make room. She raised her arm, cocked her small pistol with her other gloved hand and shot the man in the head before I could say "don't" or anything else. It was a very small caliber weapon, and it barely made a popping noise, but it did the job. The ball went in just above his right eye, and he flopped, rag-doll fashion. I noted that his codpiece was undone.
She took a deep breath and said, "Fetch my horse." I hesitated, mostly in wonder, and she raised an eyebrow and said, "Please," her lips squirming as if she might cry. I scooped up the dead officer's purse and did as she asked, a bit shaken, my manhood stiff as any board.
I set aside my musket and calmed her big animal with a few pats, holding him steady and offering her my hand as she stepped up and spread her maroon dress behind her. "Thank you," she said, looking down at me, her eyes glistening, buttoning her torn-open jacket. A gold locket dangled at the base of her stately throat and golden rings were at her ears. I wondered again if her bare buttocks and juicy quim bestrode the saddle when she wiggled upon it. I also wondered where she hid her pistol.
Then we heard hoofbeats.
"Ah," she said, "Foster has brought reinforcements. I knew he wasn't a coward, your randy fool of a lieutenant."
I grabbed the reins out of her hand and yanked her horse and mine off the trail and deep into the trees and ground fog, ignoring the branches flaying my face and arms as well as her protests as she ducked low. The riders were British, more grenadiers with uniforms like the dead men's. They milled about, and then a few went north, on up the trail at a gallop, while the others got down near the bodies and spread out under a senior officer's shouted orders. The woman dismounted easily and stood beside me; her scent and body warmth enveloped me, her hand easily on my shoulder.
"Reload your pistol," I said.
"Can't," she whispered, her breath soft on my face, her firm breast against my upper arm, "don't have the balls with me." She produced the tiny gun from her dark boot.
I took the still-warm weapon, poured a thimble of powder in its barrel and found a suitable pebble I could ram down its muzzle and then primed it. "Better than nothing," I said, handing it back to her on half-cock. She looked at me, furrowing her brow as she holstered it, displaying a slit in her skirt and her bare calf. We moved deeper into the trees, as quietly as we could, watching where we put our feet.
"Over here," someone shouted behind us. "Two of 'em!"
We abandoned our horses and ran, her wide skirt catching every limb and bramble. Someone fired from well behind us, and the woman jumped and made a small sound as the ball flicked branches, but we kept running, stumbling and scared, at least I was.
When we came to stone outcropping, I scrambled up and then pulled her along, taking the opportunity to enjoy a fine view of her lovely chest since her jacket had been pulled open, and we ran up a hill where the trees were all pines and other conifers, the brown needles deep underfoot.
"Must stop," she moaned, pulling on me, her hair a wild mess. "Hurt my ankle." She sat down heavily and pulled off one short boot, rubbing at her foot, flexing it and ignoring the fact that one breast was nearly bare and the other was about to join it as her fancy shirt lay completely open, ripped asunder and her chest scratched.
I sat beside her, panting like a spavined mule, and we looked down into the foggy woods, seeing an occasional flash of red coat or a saber catching the light. The sun moved higher. We waited and watched until she yanked her dress together, tugged her boot back on and stood to test her foot, letting me help her up. She paused briefly in my grip, then smiled and turned away.
"They'll come looking for us, won't they?" she asked quietly, her shoulder leaning on mine. "I mean your Continentals."
"Of course," I said. "But it may take a while. Is your husband in camp?"
"No," she said, shaking her curly head, ringlets cascading over her forehead and shoulders, "went back to New York to meet with Howe and his coterie." She licked her lips. "Let's go on," she said, offering me her hand.
We trudged up the long, steep hill and at the summit paused to rest and to enjoy the spread of countryside beneath us, all around us in the afternoon haze. We could see for miles. "Amazing county," she said.
"Worth fighting for," I replied, trying not to sound heroic.
"Um," she said. "Look." She pointed. Tiny below us a scattering of British soldiers on horseback moved along a faint trail and then disappeared under the tree cover. "I could ask them for help, I suppose," she said, giving me a sly smile to show she was not serious.
"Why did you shoot that young officer?" I asked.
"He was getting ready to rape me," she said coldly. "Wanted those men to hold me while he did it, the bastard. Used vile language about his intent. Even showed me his puny weapon." She put her hand to her mouth and then laughed. "He was not well armed."
I held my peace, looking at her and seeing the color rise in her cheeks.
"He said they could have me when he was finished, the braggart." She took a deep breath, sucking in her stomach and thrusting out her pointed breasts. "I told him who I was, who my husband was. He laughed, actually laughed at me, may he rot in hell."
"We had better stay here until we spot some of my friends," I suggested.
"All right," she said. "I even showed him my ring." She held it up for me to see, huge and gaudy. "I'm hungry, skipped breakfast this morning." It was well after high noon by then.
I offered her my canteen and she drank deeply, letting water run down her chin, wiped her mouth on her gloved hand and smiled at me. "We can probably find some berries or roots," I said, getting to my feet. We went down the far side of the sloping hill and came to a small, open pasture with a lean-to near a tiny trickle of a stream, likely a shepherd's place. A thicket of blackberries grew behind the worn shelter, and we gorged ourselves, ignoring the scratches and staining our fingers and mouths dark red. We drank from the creek and sat in the warming sun which had long since burnt away all the fog. My thoughts turned to her body.
"This is nice," she said, "so peaceful." Our knees touched. My hopes rose.
I was about to agree when two redcoated riders came out of the woods on the other side of the grass, two hundred yards away. "Be still," I said to the woman, but they saw us at once and flapped their reins, getting their horses charging through the chest high hay. I rested my musket against the side of the lean-to, took a deep breath and fired at perhaps fifty yards. I aimed at the horse but hit the rider in the thigh. He toppled off and the horse dragged him aside as I bit open another cartridge.
I loaded as fast as I could, priming, spitting the ball into the muzzle and ramming it home, but the rider was on me before I could cock my piece and withdraw the ramrod. The woman fired at him, holding her pistol with both hands, as he swung his sword at me. He flinched and I blocked his slash with my musket, and then tossed aside my rod and shot him in the back before he could get turned around. He threw up his arms, slumped forward and tumbled to the ground.
I reloaded quickly, fixed on my bayonet, told the bent-over woman, who seemed to having a case of the dry heaves, to stay put and went to check on the two soldiers. The one who had chopped at me was done for, lung shot, so I tore out his throat to end his misery. I had trouble finding the other one until the woman screamed. The man, blood pumping from his leg and staining his white breeches from hip to knee, had crawled through the grass and gotten behind the lean-to.
When I turned, he was standing, one legs oddly bent, holding the woman in front of him, his arm about her waist, hand clawing her belly and his sword edge at her throat. "Throw it down," he yelled at me, changing his grip to her ripe breast, ripping her dress open.
I dropped my musket into the tall grass and raised my hands.
"I'm bleedin'," he cried at me. "C'm 'ere and bandage me up or I'll cut 'er head off."
"Right," I said as he tore open her jacket, leaning his weight on her shoulders while he groped her.
"You can use my shift," the woman said clearly as I approached. Her eyes held mine and her chest rose and fell quickly with her breathing. He was ripping at her ruffled shirt, clawing her high breast.
When I was within a step, she yelled "Now!" at the top of her lungs, elbowed the man hard in the belly and twisted away from him, leaving a piece of her ruffle in his hand. He slashed at me backhanded, nicking me just above the belt, and I was on him, battering him to the ground, twisting his blade from his hand and skewering him through the middle of his chest. He lay spread-eagled, nailed to the sod by his own sword. He coughed once and kicked his legs a few times.
The woman grabbed my arm. "Well done," she sighed, fingering a long red bruise on her neck, one white breast standing outside her torn clothes, the nipple swollen and poking up like a finger joint. "Are you hurt?"
I pulled out my shirt and looked. I was barely a scratch, but it did bleed and my good shirt was ripped open. She pulled her jacket together, dabbed at my stomach with a handkerchief she had produced from somewhere and then wiped at the wound with water from my canteen, tickling me a bit. I assured her I was all right and that we should move on since the shots would surely bring more company.
"Please," she said, crumpling against me, shaking. "Hold me."
I did and enjoyed the feel of her strong body, her hard tits, her firm bottom, her breathing, quivering warmth, smooth back.
"Make love to me," she sighed, lifting her chin and putting her lips to my neck, sucking.
"Eh?" I said, brilliant as usual.
"Swive me, you big fool, quickly." She clawed at me and dropped to her knees, pulling me down beside her, breathing hard.
"We ought to run," I said to her mouth before and after I kissed her.
"Do it, damn you, right now," she moaned arching back in my grip and then falling into the deep grass as I let her go to open my foreflap and release my quickly hardening yard.
"Oh yes," she said, looking up at my trembling weapon as she pulled her skirts to her waist, "get on with it, man. I'm ready. I need it." She lifted her knees and spread them wide apart, showing me her ruby treasures, lips parted, belly heaving and hips already moving, nubbin erect and throbbing.
What we did had nothing to do with love. It was all about survival, about being alive when others had suddenly become dead. Blood lust it was, something like that. I rammed and she surged, meeting my thrusts with her own, insistent and furious, clawing at my extended arms and clamping me to her cunny by wrapping her legs about my body, kicking my rump with her boots. I soon came, biting my lip to keep from crying out, and then she spasmed and climaxed soon after, releasing a howl of success and then slowing and panting, she pushed me from her. It had only taken a few minutes and she had never opened her eyes once we began. She wiped the drool from her lips and gave me a small smile.
She stood first, a bit unsteady, flushed and breathing hard while I was on my hands and knees, thoroughly spent, my prod hanging still engorged, wanting more. "Should we try to catch the horses?" she asked.
Oceana
- 20.04.2020
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