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Message-ID: <47455asstr$1081941002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel part 15
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Date: Wed, 14 Apr 2004 07:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Rebel 15.txt  " begin>
Rebel 15 (Old Bill) (MF hist)

Major Rogers' Lady

	"I hear tell that regiment of foot in New Brunswick's got a new 
commander, a right smart one they say."

	I stood in front of Lt. Foster and waited.  He seldom told us 
anything just for practice.

	"Feller's eager to make a reputation.  That's what I heard."

	I shifted my weight to the other foot.

	"Reckon we ought to find out, maybe slow him down a might."

	"Suppose," I said.

	"Why don't you go in an' see what's what?" he said, examining 
a sore on his foot.

	"Alone?" I said.

	"Everybody's busy but you," he said.

	"Yes, sir," I said.

	New Brunswick was one of those places where the British had 
built a regular barracks with crowded quarters for their men, much 
more room for the officers, a court yard and flagpole out front and 
lots of storage space underneath, a kitchen in the back along with a 
stable.  I hung around the local saloon until I gathered up what I 
could about the new major called Rogers who seeme
 d to be both a 
spit and polish man as well as an experienced fighter.  He was 
sending our patrols, drilling his people hard, establishing outposts 
and looking for trouble.

	"He got a wife?" I asked the man I was drinking with.

	"Yep," he said, "pretty thing, `bout half his size, all lace and 
bows and such.  Came with trunks of clothes and doodads."

	That was not really unusual, but a number of British officers 
had adopted the custom of having a woman for their pleasure in the 
colonies who was not a true wife, but simply a convenience, a 
mistress with the name of wife.  I wondered which this woman was 
and whether or not it mattered.  I stayed around another day, got 
one good look at the man my lieutenant was so interested in and 
rode back to our camp, some ten miles off.

	"He's a fighter, do doubt.  Peninsula veteran, heavy legged, 
broad shouldered, loud voiced, all the usual things.  And he believes 
in discipline.  I saw two men flogged in the three days I wa
 s there."

	Foster nodded.  "Sounds like trouble," he said.

	"We can likely draw them out if you want to," I said.

	"Us against a regiment of lobsters, hah," he said, "I don't think 
so."

	Since our company got up to twenty men rarely and had a 
dozen or so usually, that made sense.

	"Why don't you just take my good rifle, find a spot where they 
can't see you, and put a lead ball in his tiny brain."

	"That an order?" I asked.

	"Go try," he said.  "Take a week, be careful.  I want you and 
that rifle back, leastways the rifle."

	I nodded and set off.  The first thing I found when I got back 
to New Brunswick was that Major Rogers was on a wide swinging 
tour of his area and then would be going into New York City for 
orders.  He was not expected back for a fortnight.  I sat and 
ordered another beer, studied the waiting wenches and decided 
none was worth the effort and headed for the barracks after 
carefully stowing my weapons.

	I lounged about, watching the office
 rs' quarters, and in mid-
afternoon a dainty woman that I had not seen before came skipping 
down the steps with a basket on her arm and headed for the 
market.  She was a pretty bird with light brown curls bobbing, 
breasts the size and shape of coffee cups, a narrow waist and a 
good, long stride.  She fit the description.  I wished George was 
around so we could set up a situation where I could rescue her but 
decided I might be able to improvise.  I trailed along after her, 
looking for an opportunity and admiring the roll of her hips.

	It came an hour or so later when two bare-headed men 
emerged from the local tavern, barely holding each other upright 
and stepped right in front of the dainty damsel, her basket now 
half-full.

	"Lor," said one, "wha' has we `ere?'

	"Nice piece a'ass, I'd say," said the other, guffawing at his own 
jest and scratching his dirty groin.

	"Out all alone, missy?" 

	"No," said I, slapping his hand away and stepping between the 
drunken 
 men and the big-eyed girl.  "Get along." I said calmly.

	The one on my left pulled a knife from his belt, and I kicked 
him in the ballocks.  He fell, rolled over and screamed while his 
friend looked at me coldly.  "`Ere," he said, fumbling for the pistol in 
the back of his belt, "why'd ye do that, y'big son'abitch?"

	I cuffed him around, took his pistol and tossed it aside, shoved 
him back to the roadside wall, drove a good right into his gut, and 
heaved him over the wall, picked up his writhing friend and 
dropped him on top of the first, then I dusted my hands and turned 
for my thanks.  She was gone.  

	Back at another local inn, I found a man who worked for the 
Redcoats.  "Oh, aye," he said, he had seen the new mistress of the 
place and wasn't she pretty and "dumb as a stump," he said.  "Has 
no idea what's going on," he continued.  I asked a few more 
questions and then rode back to camp.

	Foster decided we could capture the man on his way to New 
York, pump 
 him dry and exchange him for one or more of our 
captured officers.  We waited nearly a week and then laid an 
ambush, one the few things at which we were good, and waited.  
The next morning the major, his wife and her maid were our 
prisoners and there were seven dead and nearly naked infantrymen 
moldering in the roadside ditches, stripped of their valuables and 
weapons.

	Foster questioned the fuming major who had a scratch on his 
forehead from some dubious bravery during the ambush, and then 
sent him on up the chain of command.  That left us with two 
unattached females to look after, a difficult assignment, but one we 
were willing to risk.  The maid, a woman of thirty or so, a Scot I 
believe, indentured, was very amiable and soon had bedded all the 
company and settled into a routine that brought her an eager lover 
and a few shillings two or three times a day.

	The major's wife was another matter entirely. We dragooned 
Michael, by far the handsomest of Foster's
  men, a mean-spirited 
killer and quick-witted seducer of women who looked like a 
choirboy, to make the first approach, and he was in her bed the 
second day her husband was gone, and then back reporting to us 
the next morning, looking very glum.  "Pretty, willing, stupid and 
numb," he pronounced her.  "Y'might as well stick it in a ball of bread 
dough for all the life in her.  Yeast's got more."  So I sent for my 
friend George.  I could not believe Michael had failed to find 
pleasure after getting between the girl's legs.  It had never 
happened before, and he had cozened dozens of young women 
much to the joy of himself and of others, including the women.

	George, I had been told, was absolutely tireless until he had 
fully spent himself and then he was done for the day, but he 
sometimes rogered for an hour or more without pause if he had 
been well fed and reasonably rested.  I was always proud when I 
could do a hundred in and out strokes, but I think George coul
 d do 
a thousand.  I sicced him on the girl.  He introduced himself as a 
friend of Michael's, was invited into her tent and spent the night in 
the young matron's smooth arms and clamping thighs.  He was back 
before I had stirred up my breakfast fire.

	"Useless slut," he said.  "Dead meat.  She lies there like a 
corpse, legs and arms wherever y'put `em, a smile on her doll-like 
face, wasted efforts, that's what it is.  Forget her, jus' puddin'."  He 
stalked off, disgusted, saying his left hand was better.

	I now had invested some five days and was back at square 
one not knowing when this idyll might suddenly end and eager to 
dip my thick wick.  So I visited the young lady, knuckled my 
forehead, and said, "Mistress Rogers, I don't expect you remember 
me, but ... "

	She looked at me with china-blue eyes, cocked her head to the 
side, put her finger to her lips and smiled.  "But I do," she said 
musically, "those two ruffians a few weeks back, in the market."

	"Ind
 eed," I said.  "You've a good memory."

	"Have you heard anything about my poor husband?" she said, 
taking my elbow.  She was, she said to my question, Major Cornelius 
Rogers' true and faithful wife of some eight months.  I winced at the 
"faithful."  He had wed her in New York and accepted her dowry 
happily.  She was nineteen, had never seen the inside of a school, 
could neither read nor write, and, I suspect, was sure the world was 
flat.  But she was pretty and seemed lively.

	"If you don't read," I asked carefully, "what do you do for 
pleasure?"

	She looked down at her feet with her heavily-lashed eyes and 
bit her lip.  "Can't tell you," she said, "but when my Corny is here, 
we do it two or three times a day, in the present tense as they say.  
First thing every morning, sometimes before dinner, and always at 
night."

	"You don't," I said, lifting her chin and smiling at her, 
pleasantly, I hoped.  I had shaved that morning and was reasonably 
clean for a chang
 e.

	"Oh yes.  He enjoys it so."  She giggled quietly and covered 
her mouth with her hands.  "You should hear him."

	"And you?" I asked.

	"Well, I like to please him.  My father told me it was my duty to 
please men." She nodded gravely.

	We walked in the sunshine, ignoring the other soldiers at their 
usual duties.  "And does it please you?" I asked quietly, holding her 
elbow tightly so our hips touched.

	"Not really," she said, looking up at me with her innocent eyes 
of blue, blinking.  "Should it?  I've never thought of that."

	"Come," I said and pulled her into the big tent she shared with 
her maid.  I dropped the flap behind us, took her gently into my 
arms and kissed her.  She let me.  Period.  I pulled my mouth away 
and looked at her rather sourly.

	"Don't you like that?" I asked with her firm breast cupped in 
my big hand.

	She nodded.  I sat her on one of the cot beds, knelt before her 
so my mouth was just about level with hers.  "Kiss me," I said, 
ho
 lding her at the hips.

	She swallowed, put her hands on my ears, bent and touched 
my lips with hers while I rested my hands on her thighs.

	"Try again," I asked, "a bit more effort this time."

	I put my hands behind me and she kissed me gently again, 
scooting forward to get me between her legs. Her lips were 
wonderfully yielding.

	"Did you like that?" I asked, having enjoyed the feel of her soft 
mouth and her thighs along my waist.

	She nodded.

	"Again," I said, pulling her to me, one hand in the small of her 
back and the other on her rounded buttock.  She stretched up and 
kissed me, her lips parting slightly and staying on my mouth as our 
bodies ground together.  Her arms and hands hung at her sides 
while I gnawed at her.

	I stood and looked down at her, warming and hardening.  
"Don't you like me, don't you like boys, men?" I asked.

	She nodded and smiled, licking her lips.

	"Well," I said, "get everything into it, girl, your hands, legs, 
body, lips, bell
 y button, everything.  Now get up here, really kiss me 
like you mean it and as if you would like me to kiss you back."

	She grabbed my upper arms, raised on one toe, bent her knee 
between my legs and we kissed, and kissed, and kissed.  No 
tongues, just mouths.

	"Was that better?" she asked when we pulled apart and I held 
our bellies together as my prod rose.  We were both panting and 
her eyes looked glassy.

	"What do you think?" I asked, unbuttoning her frilly shirtfront.

	"Yes," she said, "that was nice.  It felt good.  Do you want to 
throng me?"

	I nodded at the ancient term, supressing a smile, and we 
undressed quietly.  She had no signs of modesty, but a trim, clean 
body with a muff of tight curls, a well-rounded bottom and sharply 
defined ribs.  I rolled under the quilt beside her, took her mouth and 
felt her relax, go all but inert as my cock slid up her leg, just lying 
there breathing.

	I lay back beside her on the narrow cot, turned on my side.

	"Wh
 at's wrong?" she asked after a minute or so as I stroked 
her soft thigh.  "Aren't you going to do it?"

	"Same as kissing," I said.  "You just want me to poke you?"

	"Yes," she said.  "Do you want to do the other way?" she 
rolled over and presented her rump.

	I smacked her gently.  "No," I said.  "I want you to swive me."

	"I can't," she said quietly, turning back, putting her leg on mine, 
her head on my chest and sliding her hand down to hold my 
swelling member gently.  "I don't have one of those.  Oh, yours is, 
oh."

	"Oh ho," I said, kissing her breast and then her belly and 
turning my hand into her groin as I pulled her higher.  "But you do.  
It's just a lot smaller."  I kissed my way south, pried open her 
narrow lips, found the place where her limp, little stalk nestled and 
tickled it.  "See," I said, "there it is."  I bent into her groin, kissed it 
and licked her two or three times while I poked two fingers into her.  
"Now," I said, feeling her tremble a 
 bit and become somewhat juicy, 
"come along, and let's see what we can do if we both work at it."

	I lay flat on my back, held my hot, firm cock at its hairy base 
and tossed back the quilt.  "Come," I said, "mount me and ride me, 
enjoy yourself."

	She looked at my quivering ram, blinking rapidly.  "Are you 
sure?" she said.

	"Now," I said, patting her butt, and she moved to sit on my 
legs with her knees at my hips.  She reached out and touched the 
purplish head of my swollen prod.

	"It's, it's awful big," she said. "And hot."

	"If you'll lick it a bit, it'll go in easier," I suggested, stroking her 
thighs, running my thumbs up as far as they would reach as she held 
my shaft with both hands and sucked my member's glans until it was 
spit slick.  Then she raised up, wiggled until it was properly lodged 
and slowly sank on my loins, her eyes squeezed closed, breasts 
jutting out, hands on my shoulders, lips enfolding me gently.

	"Oh my," she said, smiling down at me
  once it was fully in her.  
"Oh my."

	"Now," said, "it's entirely up to you.  Fast or slow, whatever 
you want."  I felt proud of my restraint as my rod jumped with a will 
of its own.

	She began just grinding us together but soon she was heaving 
up and down with her hands on my ribs, and then her knees came 
forward, and she rose and fell on my shaft in earnest, and I began 
lifting my hips to stay in her.  This went on for some time at various 
speeds and postures until she squealed and shuddered with her 
breasts in my hands, hard nipples sticking out between my fingers, 
and then she fell on my chest, limp and blubbering.  I held her firm 
buttocks and continued along, seeking my own fulfillment.  When I 
came she gasped and shivered.

	I stayed in her, throbbing, held her tightly, rolled her over and 
rested on my elbows, looking down at her happy face.

	"Did you enjoy that?" I asked, making tiny ins and outs.

	She nodded, breathing hard.

	"If you don't enjoy it,
  you have not done it right," I said, 
mounting her fully, arching my back, and moving my body up along 
hers so I was sure to stimulate her little nubbin, grinding away.  
"You understand?  It is supposed to be good for both people."  I 
slowly penetrated her young quim.

	She nodded again, smiling and rocking in time with my efforts.

	"Now lift your legs, lock you feet together behind me and let's 
try again."

	The sun was setting when we left the tent, and I had long 
since lost track of what we had done. Her maid had come in once 
that afternoon, stood and watched for a few minutes, smiled at me 
and left quietly.  I was sore.  I was sure the young wife was too.  
The bed was a mess.  Her lips, both sets, were surely bruised and 
swollen, and she stumbled occasionally and wobbled a bit as we 
walked to the cookfire.  I squeezed her hand and we parted, 
promising to meet again that very evening for another lesson.

	 The young woman greeted me just after sunset in a lon
 g, 
white night gown that barely hung on the rim of her shoulders and 
fully displayed the peaks of her young breasts.  As I got out of my 
boots and britches, I tried to ignore the creaking and moaning 
coming from the other camp bed where a heavy-set back and rump 
rose and fell beneath the quilts and between a pair of lean legs that I 
assumed were her maid's.  I looked at her and she smiled.

	 She stood before me as I pulled my shirt over my head and 
then she stepped between my legs, wriggled once and the long 
gown slithered down her lean body to puddle at her feet.

	"Can we do it this way," she asked, as my mast rose.

	"We can try," I said, and we did.  We also tried a number of 
other permutations on the same theme and in each she was an eager 
and active participant. She enjoyed several orgasms that really shook 
her and clamped my striving member.  Tired, we rested under the 
covers, wound together and slept.  I awoke, fiercely hard, in the 
gray of pre-dawn lig
 ht, caressed the young woman to quick 
readiness and mounted her gently, getting perhaps two-thirds of my 
horn in her.  At first she simply groaned and I feared she was 
relapsing to her old, unengaged ways, but she soon raised her arms 
and legs, her body writhed and heaved beneath me. I sank my hard 
weapon into her depths and we enjoyed each other until we both 
were spent.  She seemed to particularly like the very slow 
withdrawal strokes. I dressed, smiled at her rumpled maid in the 
other bed who had observed our morning congress, blew her a kiss 
and left, tiptoeing past the other tents to my own.

	Her husband returned the next day, having given his parole. 
"Is she truly your wife?" I asked the man once we got past the 
preliminaries.

	"No," he said, "in fact not a very good piece, but just for the 
time I'm here in the colonies, she will have to do."

	"You took her dowry," I reminded him.

	"Her father is as thick as she is," he said.

	"You know she does not ca
 re who beds her?"

	He raised an eyebrow.

	"George here has had her, so have I.  One of our friends is 
probably horsing her now."

	"Don't believe it," he said.

	"Don't you like when she arches up and wraps her legs about 
you?" I said.  "I taught her that."

	"Damn," he said, his faced flushed.

	In two days both he and the girl were gone as well as her 
maid.  I do not know the end of this story, but I doubt that it was a 
happy one.

<1st attachment end>

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