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Message-ID: <47374asstr$1081635004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel 2
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Date: Sat, 10 Apr 2004 18:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Rebel 002 (Old Bill)  (MF hist)

IN BOSTON

Over the next few months, I managed to get into 
Boston a half a dozen times as a sort of 
bodyguard to one of the locals who ventured back 
into his hometown to spy out what the Brits were 
up to in the winter of 1775-76.  He was a fine, 
brave little man named Richard Backus, and 
although I could hardly understand him at first, 
we became reasonably good friends, as much as 
your ordinary soldier can be friends with a well-
educated officer.  Colonel Backus had been 
involved in every Massachusetts action so far 
including the running fight along the roads from 
Concord and the debacle on Breed's Hill, and he 
had the scars to show for it.  He also knew many 
people in Boston and, I believe, had one or two 
mistresses there.  I do not think he was married, 
but I am not sure.

	The first time I rowed him across, he asked 
me, as we dragged our small boat up into some 
weeds beside a disused dock, if I was interested 
in getting laid.  I had to inquire twice before I 
was sure what he meant and by then he had run 
through his gaudy, Harvard yard  vocabulary until 
he reached "foocked."

	"Oh," I said brightly, feeling the fool, "of 
course, if we have the time, sir."

	"We shaul maike the toime," he said, slapping 
me on the back, and I will not try again to 
duplicate his speech.

	I followed him as unobtrusively as I could, 
often on the other side of the street, covering 
his back as he visited several homes, businesses 
and, thankfully, taverns where I usually stood at 
the bar while he went from table to table, 
listening and smiling.  The town was full of what 
he called "lobsterbacks," but we both tried to 
ignore them as if they were not there and went 
about our business quietly.  At about sunset, 
which came early as winter set in, he handed me a 
few shillings, pointed me toward a many-windowed 
tavern, and said he would join me in an hour or 
so.  "Ask for Rusty," he said, as he slipped into 
an alley and disappeared like a wisp of smoke.

	When I ducked my head to enter the tavern, a 
kind of hush fell over the place.  It was not 
very crowded, perhaps fifteen or twenty men were 
drinking and smoking, but I felt a lot of eyes on 
me as I ordered ale and plunked down a shilling.

	"An' `oo moite you be?" asked a small man at 
my elbow.  Wizened was the word for him and 
nearly toothless, tall as my breastbone. 
 
	"Lord North," I said, wiping the foam from my 
lips.

	"Indeed," he said, "delighted."  He stuck out 
his hand, and when I took it another man grabbed 
me from behind, pining my arms, elbows nearly 
touching.  I did not struggle.  The little man 
searched me quickly, dumped my thin purse and 
small pistol on the bar, and then nodded to the 
unseen man behind me.  I was released, flexed my 
shoulders and looked about.  No one was there and 
almost all the eyes were looking away from us.

	"Din' oye see ye wif Backys, tidday, up in 
d'town?" asked the little man, toying with my 
brass bound pistol.

	"Who?"  I pushed my tin toward the inn-keeper 
for another. "Can I buy you a drink?"

	"Gin," said the little man, and a small glass 
of cloudy liquid appeared along with my beer.

	"Is Rusty about?" I asked, making my face 
look pleasant.

	"She is," he said, "an' `ow would ye be 
knowin' aboot `er?"

	"Friend told me," I said, wiping my mouth, my 
heart calming.

	He nodded and drank.  Then he pushed my 
shilling, purse and weapon back toward me.  "Yer 
money's nae good `ere," he said.  He twiddled 
with the end of his sharp nose.  "A short visit 
is it?"

	I nodded.

	"Ah," he said with a crooked smile, "`ere's 
Rusty `er own dear sef."  He grabbed a passing 
serving girl and pulled her between us.  "Big 
feller's lookin' for ye, dearie," he said, and 
the woman smiled at me and raised an eyebrow.  
"Knew yer name, `e did."

	The girl was probably about my age, a bit 
disheveled from her work, but strong bodied and 
dark haired, her apron beer and sweat stained.  
We stood a few inches apart, our chests touching, 
lips feeling each other's breath in the narrow 
space.  She tossed her head like a horse to get a 
long curl out of her eyes.

	"Could use some comfort," I said quietly, 
glancing down the front of her gaping dress.

	"Couldn't we all."  She smiled broadly and 
braced back her shoulders.

	"Got the time?"

	"Perhaps. And who gave you my name?"

	"Can't say.  He'll be here shortly, and I'll 
have to leave."  I held my hand out to indicate 
the colonel's height.

	"Well then, where'll y'be goin'?"

	I gestured with my thumb.  "Dorchester, 
likely," I said. "The hills."

	She nodded and smiled.  "Come," she said with 
a bent finger, and I followed her up the stairs 
that stood along one wall of the tavern.  She 
closed the thin door behind us and leaned against 
it. "Backus, eh?" she said as I sat and pulled 
off my boots.

	I did not answer, and she came and knelt 
between my legs.   She unbuttoned my foreflap, 
plucked out my tumescent member, stroked it a 
time or two and took it in her generous mouth, 
rolling her tongue about its trembling head.  I 
stopped breathing altogether.  She rested her 
hands on my thighs, raising and lowering herself 
as my shaft slid in and out of her soft mouth, 
bobbing her head, eyes closed, breathing loudly 
through her nose.  I put one hand in her thick 
and tangled hair and held myself upright with the 
other as she brought me near, eased me back, 
encouraged me up again, first faster and then 
much slower, sucked and licked the length of my 
heated lance, raked me with her teeth, nibbled 
here and there, kneaded my ballocks gently and 
again slowed to let the hard shaft escape her 
lips with a final lap of her long tongue.  My 
horn reared, pointing at the rafters, straining 
my skin.

	Wordlessly, smiling, she mounted my thighs, 
tossed her dress over my wet and upright 
bowsprit, inched forward, put her hands about my 
neck, rose and impaled herself with a wiggle and 
a sigh, arching back her head.  She was as ready 
as I was and we came, almost together, in a 
minute or less and kept right on humping as if it 
did not matter, chewing at each other's mouths 
now and then.

	I have no sense of how long it took or how 
many times either of us shook and spasmed, but 
when she was convinced we could do no more, and 
our groins were thoroughly sodden, she kissed me 
open mouthed, whispered, "That was grand, big 
one, just grand," and stood, her feet beside 
mine.  "He'll be downstairs by now.  Get your 
boots back on."

	I did as I was told and followed her down to 
the tavern, trying to get my heart to calm and my 
lungs to work, my knees having turned to jelly. I 
had never been served so in such a short time.  
Colonel Backus was indeed at the bar, chatting 
with the short man who had accosted me.  He 
smiled as we approached, greeted Rusty with a 
quick kiss and a hug and said, "Let'
 s go."

	I dug out the handful of shillings he had 
given me and held them out to the girl.  She 
shook her head.  "Maybe next time," she said.  
The little man folded my fingers about my coins 
and nodded.

	The colonel and I made out way back to our 
tiny boat, and I rowed us back to the other 
shore.

	"Enjoy yourself?" he asked as I pulled on the 
oars.

	"Yessir," I said.  "Indeed."

	"She's awful good," he said.

	"Yessir," I said.

	"Ever have a woman do that for you before?"

	"No sir," I said, almost truthfully, still 
trying to remember the feeling, my ballocks 
throbbing.

	"Now you owe her one," he said.  "Remember 
that next time."


	The next time nearly got us killed, but I did 
have the opportunity to repay Rusty, with her 
generous and instructive help.  A marching patrol 
of four Redcoats and a young officer came around 
a corner that morning and down the street we were 
on before we could do anything about it.  They 
stopped the colonel, demanding his name and 
address, and I knew I would be next.  I tried to 
recall the name of Rusty's tavern but could not 
so decided to play dumb.

	The officer dismissed the colonel, brushed a 
woman with a broom on her shoulder aside and came 
to face me, looking up and sucking his yellow 
teeth.

	"Name?" he said.

	I made a gurgling sound, choked a time or 
two, crooked a shoulder forward and forced out, 
"Ed" in a soprano voice.

	"Edward is it?" the man said, glancing at the 
soldier beside him.

	I nodded vigorously, drooling.

	"And what do you do?"

	I went through the motions of casting and 
reeling in.

	"Fisherman?" he said, "Go on with you."  He 
waved to his men and moved farther along the 
street.  I exhaled.  By then the colonel had 
disappeared so I made my way to the tavern, 
looking for Rusty.

	She saw me from across the room since I guess 
I'm too tall to easily miss, raised a dark 
eyebrow and gestured.  Again I followed her up 
the stairs and watched her latch the door behind 
us.  I held her, felt her and kissed her some.  
"He said I owed you," I told her when we sat on 
the bed beside each other working on buttons and 
laces.

	"Did he?" she said, pulling off her sturdy 
shoes, her large breasts all but tumbling from 
her unlaced blouse and hanging stays.

	I nodded, following her example.  "Now what?" 
I asked, half riled and wearing just my shirt.

	"On your knees, m' big lad, an' pay y'r 
debt," she said with a chuckle in her voice.  She 
spread her legs and gathered her skirt about her 
waist.  "Now move in closer." I did, admiring and 
amazed at the pink petals that appeared while she 
gripped my shoulders and got her legs outside my 
shoulders and then atop them.  "Now," she said, 
"your tongue is what I want.  Lick upward, if you 
will.  Gently.  Slowly and deeply.  Lick, boy, 
lick."

	She held my head, hands clawed, and I 
followed directions as she sometimes used my nose 
as a plow. I had done a few girls back on the 
farm, just kiss and run, but never like this, 
never so deeply or diligently.

	"There," she said when my tongue found a 
small, firm protuberance that felt a bit like a 
knotted cord.  "Right there," and she leaned 
back, still holding my head, drawing me into her.  
"Deeper, deeper," she cried, and I obeyed, my 
hands at her wide buttocks.  I licked and kissed 
and nibbled and sank my tongue into her, feeling 
her nether lips flutter against my mouth, aware 
that she was becoming wetter and wetter, until 
she moaned, "Enough, enough," and grabbed my 
shoulders again.  "Now, up and at it," she cried, 
and I stood and took her, sliding into a warm, 
greased channel that was waiting and throbbing 
for me.  After a bit, she lay back on the bed and 
closed her eyes while I held her hips and rogered 
her soggy quim until she gasped, shuddered and 
squealed with pleasure, kicking her legs behind 
me.

	"Damn, damn, damn, y'are a good `un," she 
said, pulling herself upright and yanking my head 
down to kiss me.  "I've got to go back to work.  
Put that foul thing away."

	I did as I was told and stumbled down the 
stairs behind her after getting back into my 
britches and boots.  The tavern was much busier, 
and she hurried off while I got myself an ale, 
feeling I had been turned inside out.

	"They's out an' about tidday," said the 
wizened little man who suddenly appeared at my 
side.  "Take care."

	Still trying to recover from Rusty's 
attentions, I simply nodded and asked for another 
beer.  I spent the day in that tavern, watching 
Rusty work and drinking beer on the house.  I ate 
some bread and gravy, and about sundown the 
colonel appeared, looking worried.  He came and 
sat with me while I tried to clear my head and 
look attentive.

	"Something's up," he said quietly.  "Streets 
are full of lobsters."

	I nodded, and he took my beer away from me 
and drank it down.  I followed him out the back 
door, down toward the muddy docks and then in and 
 
out of old, brick streets, marshy areas he called 
fens, tumbled shacks, rocky ledges, and other 
places I doubt many Bostonians knew existed.  
When we finally came in sight of the place we had 
concealed our rowboat, we saw there were guards 
along the shore, about one every fifty yards or 
so.  Across the black water I could see General 
Washington's flickering campfires.

	"You have a weapon?" he whispered, gripping 
my arm tightly.

	I shook my head.  He had ordered me not to 
bring my pistol any more.  "Just a small knife in 
my boot," I said.

	"Have to do," he whispered, pointing.  "Get 
rid of that Redcoat, and do it quietly."

	I took me perhaps five minute to creep 
through the sawgrass and nettles on toes and 
fingertips until I was crouched behind the 
sentry.  It seemed more like five hours, and I 
was sure he would turn and see me at any moment.  
Then I rose, coughed and stumbled over a rock at 
the same time.  The man whirled, leveled his 
bayonet tipped musket at me, and yelled, "Halt 
right there, y'shitfaced beggar!"

	I decided to play drunk rather than dumb 
since it was closer to the truth, but the hair 
rose on the back of my neck as I stumbled on 
toward the soldier.

	"`Alt, I said," he demanded, jabbing his 
spike in my general direction.  I wove a bit, 
scratched my hand, said, "Got to puke," and 
reached out toward him.  He raised his musket 
across his body to block me, and I bent as if I 
was going to fall and gulped, drew my little 
blade and drove it up into his belly, grabbing 
his face with my other hand to cover his mouth as 
best I could.  I felt his warm blood on my hand, 
withdrew my knife and stuck him again, higher, 
just under his crossbelts, bending his back 
across my knee and sliding in six inches of thin 
steel.  He dropped his musket with a clatter on 
the shale and fell to one knee, trying to pull my 
hand from his jaw.  I pushed his chin back and 
sliced across his throat.  A torrent of blood 
splashed out, a regular fountain, drenching my 
right leg, and I let the dead man fall, rolling 
down toward the lapping water as I felt the urge 
to really vomit.  I shuddered and spat; the 
feeling passed.

	The colonel was beside me at once, handed me 
the fallen musket, and we ran to the boat and 
dragged it toward the water, bending low.  I was 
about knee deep in the swirling stream when 
someone yelled, "What's goin' on there?"  I drew 
back the flint and cocked my musket.

	"Don't fire," the colonel hissed.  "Go get 
him."

	I did not hesitate but ran directly at the 
man silhouetted against the starshine.  The beach 
was wet, rock covered, and I slipped several 
times as I charged ahead, covering the ten or 
twelve yards in just a few steps.  I faked a jab 
high, just as I had been taught back in 
Frederick, and when he blocked it, I swung the 
gun's butt into his groin.  The man grunted, 
slashed at me, his spike cutting my cheek, and I 
speared him through the chest and drove him back 
to the hillside, taking him off his feet.  He 
dropped his weapon and grabbed mine, gasping, 
"No, no, no," as I pulled out my bayonet and 
stuck him again.  Black blood poured from his 
mouth, and I let go of the musket and ran, 
falling twice, back down the beach and into the 
icy water.

	The colonel helped me climb aboard, and he 
rowed us back to the other shore, wordlessly 
while I tried to forget the torrent of blood the 
man had spewed at me.


	The last time I accompanied Colonel Backus 
into the streets of Boston was deep in the 
winter, probably late January or early February.  
Even on the tidal waters, ice had formed.  Things 
went well until the very end that day, and then 
all hell broke lose.

	I had become trusted enough that the colonel 
sent me around to various taverns to gather 
information from men he knew and trusted.  I 
carried a note in my boot and fancy signet ring 
on my finger to identify him and myself to these 
patriots.   Of course, I ended up at the smoky 
place where Rusty worked, and she and I found a 
few minutes to enjoy each other before the small 
colonel arrived, dragged me off her ample body, 
and we headed for our distant tents.

	When we reached our boat's hiding place, we 
found that someone had beaten out the bottom of 
the boat, probably with rifle butts, and we 
hurried back up the slight bluff nearby.  Without 
warning, a musket flared and fired from our right 
and then, almost at once, another discharged 
almost right in front of us, striking sparks and 
splinters from a rock.  I fell to the ground, 
felt blood on my cheek and tried to dig myself 
in, scrambling backwards like a crab.

	"Go get them," someone yelled from the right.

	"I'm hit," Colonel Backus moaned from just to 
my left.  I reached out and grabbed his foot and 
kept scrambling back, until the hillside appeared 
under my belly.  Then I grappled the man in, held 
him to my chest and rolled down the hill.

	"Where'd they go?" someone said.

	"Damn," cried another.  "Spread out."

	I picked up the colonel as you would a young 
child, bent as low and ran like hell.  I heard a 
musket fire behind us but did not look back and 
never saw or heard the ball strike.  I just ran, 
my feet slipping, mud sucking at my ankles at 
times, ice cutting my legs now and then as I 
splashed along the shore.
	I came to an old, collapsed wharf, dove under 
it, panting like a dog, put my gasping burden 
down and tried to breathe as quietly as I could, 
up to my knees in icy water with the colonel 
resting on some splintered boards that tilted at 
a wild angle.

	"Where you hit?" I whispered.

	He reached up and put his hand on my mouth.

	During the next hour or so dozens of Redcoats 
tromped about our hiding place, even walked above 
our heads on what was left of the broken wharf, 
poked into the bushes and weeds, and finally 
departed.  It was likely near midnight when the 
colonel said a word.  "Rusty," he said, tugging 
my sleeve.

	I picked him up, waded to dry land, got my 
bearings and trudged into the dark town, staying 
close to buildings, using alleys, avoiding all 
light, and finally approaching the inn from the 
back.  I left the colonel in a corner of the 
stable, walked out into the courtyard, shivering 
in the cold, my feet and legs numb, and began 
tossing pebbles and small clods of dirt up at 
Rusty's shuttered window.

	I was using bigger stones, when the shutters 
parted and her curly head and ghost-like face 
appeared in the starlight.  "The colonel's hurt," 
I hissed.  The shutters closed.

	She let us in the back door, and I hauled the 
small man upstairs and put him on her bed, the 
bed I had grown to know.  The woman brought the 
lamp near and we examined him as best we could.  
One ball had grazed his face, ripping open his 
cheek and knocking out several teeth, a wound 
that had bled a lot and crusted his neck and 
shirt.  It took us a while to find the ball in 
his thigh.  That wound had not bled as much and 
from the looks of the entry point, it was a 
ricochet, a misshapen piece of lead that had hit 
the colonel in the back of his right leg and was 
still in him.

	"Can you get a doctor?" I asked Rusty.  She 
nodded, touched my split-open cheek and 
disappeared.  I bathed the barely conscious man 
as best I could and worried about how warm he 
felt, feverish I was sure.  The leg wound was 
swollen and purple.

	It seemed to take forever, but was probably 
less than an hour when the doctor and Rusty 
pushed me aside, lit two more lamps and then 
examined the thigh wound.  The doctor cut and 
probed, dug out the flattened ball with a long, 
shiny tool and dropped it on the floor beside the 
bed.  I picked it up and put it in my purse.  The 
quiet physician sewed up the colonel's leg and 
his mouth as best he could.  Neither looked very 
pretty.

	"That wound was dirty, even had cloth in it," 
he said, when he stood, holding his back.  "Get 
me some water."

	Rusty produced a cup and the doctor put a few 
drops of something in it.  "See that he drinks it 
all," he said to the woman.  "I'll be back in the 
morning."

	Rusty sat by the colonel and held up his 
head, holding the cup to his lips until he slept 
and would drink no more.  She covered him up and 
looked at me.  "He's burning up," she said.  She 
fetched a quilt and a blanket from somewhere, and 
we rolled up together on the floor, keeping each 
other warm, spooned together, my paw on her warm 
breast, her butt in my groin.

	It was surely one of the few times I have 
slept with a nubile and willing woman, when I 
just slept.  I awoke, ridiculously hard in the 
pink of pre-dawn and pushed Rusty's dress up 
above her hips so I could slip my overheated ram 
into her puffy lips.  She woke when I entered 
her, put her hand back on my arm and sighed, 
"Slowly."

	After doing my best in that position, I 
rolled to my back with the girl atop me, grasped 
her full breast with one hand, thumbing her hard 
nipple,  and stroked her slit with the other, 
seeking her love button, until she gasped and 
clamped tightly on my rod.  I was far from done, 
but I helped her sit up facing my feet and was 
about to move toward the short rows of my 
plowing, her hips in my rip, when she said.  "Oh 
lord."

	The colonel was dead, his leg a mass of red 
and blue flesh, swollen, streaked and stretched, 
his face at peace.

	"Blood poisoning," the doctor said.  "You 
want me to take care of the body?"

	"He has family hereabouts," I said.  "Backus 
was his name."

	The doctor nodded.  "I know. Someone will 
come.  I'll send word."  He left quietly, and 
Rusty and I held each other for a while and then 
went down for a tasteless breakfast.

	"I have to go; to report," I said.

	She touched my cheek.  "He should have sewed 
you up too."

	"I don't know if I'll get back," I said.  
"Things are happening.  Artillery's on the way 
from Fort Ti."

	"You shouldn't tell me that," she said, 
smiling for the first time that morning.

	"You'll see to him?"

	She nodded, and I kissed her like a brother 
and hurried off to find a friendly fisherman who 
could get me across without trouble for a few 
shillings.  I wore the colonel's ring for a while 
and cannot remember how I lost it.


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