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Message-ID: <47693asstr$1083712202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel 28
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Date: Tue,  4 May 2004 19:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Rebel 028" begin>


Rebel 028 (Old Bill) (MF hist)

Paying for Secrets

	Foster sent me and George right back to the city of New York 
as a team.  We had our separate tasks but worked several times 
together to achieve our ends, either for ourselves or the do-nothing 
Continental Congress and the Old Fox.  George would sometimes 
rescue a damsel from my attentions or I would come upon my friend 
trying to rob or assault someone, drive him off and earn our target's 
gratitude. We got pretty good at it.

	One of the people the staff colonel told me to look into was a 
colonel of artillery who supposed knew all about forts and gun 
positions, numbers of cannon and stores of shot and powder.  "I'll 
take the man or his papers," the officer told me, giving me a sketch 
map showing the regiment's location, more or less.  Foster assured 
him that I would do the job and then he glowered at me.

	So we watched the man's house for a day or two and found 
that he had a comely little wife who went shopping every morning 
accompanied by a slave girl carrying a big basket.  The wife was 
young and stylish, the slave younger and rather bony, only half-
grown with stiff pigtails, the husband older than both their ages 
added together and a bit of a fop with a new wig and knee-high 
boots.

	George became the villain of our playlet, stopping the pair on a 
quiet street and asking the young wife for a shilling.  When she 
refused, looking a bit frightened, he grabbed one of her ear bobs, 
twisted it free and ran.  I chased after him; he skidded around a 
corner and stopped, handing me the thing, and I returned a few 
minutes later with the small jewel to receive a deep curtsey, fulsome 
praise and many thanks.  The young wife smelled good and, 
although flushed and frightened, rubbing her sore ear, seemed sure 
of herself.  The slave girl had run, leaving her basket behind, two 
loaves tumbled on the cobblestones.

	"Would you walk me home?" the woman asked after 
introducing herself as Mrs. Abercrombie, reinstalling her earring and 
looking about for her slave.

	"Of course," I said, picking up the basket and offering her my 
arm.  "Have you had trouble before?"

	"Never," she said, still breathing rapidly, pressing my elbow to 
her young body and lifting her rounded chin.

	"Anyone as pretty as you shouldn't be out alone," I said in a 
fatherly tone.

	She looked up at me and wrinkled her brow.  "I wasn't," she 
said.  "Annabelle just took fright, the silly girl."

	"City's full of cutpurses and men like that fellow, probably a 
rebel deserter."

	"Really?" she said, holding my elbow a bit more firmly, pressing 
my arm against her stay-supported and upright breast in a friendly 
manner. I nudged her a bit each time she rolled toward me, 
prodding her pink nipple nearly out of her lace from time to time.

	When we reached the front of her brick house, one probably 
confiscated from some rich Dutchman, she curtsied again displaying 
her swelling chest, thanked me profusely, took her basket, lifted her 
skirt and mounted the stairs, showing me a fine leg.  Before she 
opened he door, she turned and smiled.  "Won't you come in and 
have some tea or something?" she asked coyly, batting her dark 
eyelashes.

	"Another time perhaps," I said, smiling back and knuckling my 
brow as my yard faded, crestfallen if not astonished.  My well-
exercised horn, I had become convinced, had a mind of its own.

	She licked her lips and entered her home, closing the door 
slowly behind he, looking disappointed.

	It was a good start, and the next day I just happened to bump 
into her and her slave in the market.  We said good day to each 
other, and I offered to buy them a sweet and some coffee.  She sent 
the slave off toward a bakery on a make-work task and joined me in 
a nearby coffeehouse, fluttering both her skirts and her eyelashes. 
The place was thick with tobacco smoke and several eyes followed 
us to a small table.  Only one or two other women were in evidence, 
and they might not have been quite proper ladies judging from the 
thickness of the paint on their faces, the foul condition of their lace 
and the depth of their necklines.

	"I hope you won't have trouble if you're seen with me," I said 
as we sipped the bitter brew.

	"Course not," she said, making a pout of her soft lips.  "My 
husband trusts me.  Don't you think he should?""

	"What's he do?" I asked, admiring her clear skin and dark 
eyes, they flashed almost purple in the dim light.  She seemed to be 
stifling a smile and enjoying herself.

	"Army officer," she said proudly.  "Quite well thought of, up 
and coming as they say.  He bought his commission years ago."

	"British?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

	"Of course, of course.  His uncle's in the House of Lords."

	"My, my," I said, trying to look impressed.  "Is this his career 
then, the army?"

	"Perhaps."  She tasted a small cake and the tip of her tongue 
flicked out for a crumb, lingering a bit long thought I.  "He had 
several children from his first marriage, two boys in the army now.  
One's out in India."

	"Think of that," I said as our legs touched, accidentally 
perhaps, my knee between hers.

	"In fact, I've not had time to meet many people, he's been so 
busy."

	I slid my hand under her skirt and up her stockinged thigh 
until my fingers were close to massaging her private areas, very 
gently of course, tickling her mound under her silk and linen.  I 
watched her eyes widen a bit as I sipped from my saucer and 
fingered her.  She smiled and wiggled as I stroked in a very familiar 
manner, discovering skin and hair with my fingertips.

	"Perhaps we could get to know each other better," I 
suggested, prodding her persistently with a knuckle at about her 
midline.  Feeling her surge toward my prying fingers, spreading her 
legs a bit. I got a bit bolder.  She nodded and squirmed, taking a 
sharp breath when I found an especially sensitive place that made 
her sit up very straight and her eyes pop wide open.

	"What would be a good time?" I asked, rubbing harder and 
feeling her belly and pudenda quiver under my fingers.  I believe she 
had become rather moist and was certainly warm.

	She swallowed.  "Oh, well," she said, reaching down and 
pushing my hand away, but holding it in her small fist, still under her 
skirt.  "Perhaps when he and the slaves, our servants are asleep."

	"You have separate rooms?" I asked.

	"Um," she said, stroking the back of my hand.  "He's a very 
sound sleeper."  She wiggled and smiled again as I patted her plump 
thigh.

	"Put a candle in the front window if it's safe.  I'm sure I can 
reach your balcony."

	"How did you know?"  She blinked several times.

	"I've seen you there, early in the morning, a pretty sight."  I 
pinched her gently.

	"Why, why were you watching my house?"

	"Can't you guess?" I said, kneading her leg.  "I followed you." 
I leaned closer and smiled, wolfishly I suspect.

	She wriggled away.  "All right," she said.  "I must get back to 
my shopping."  I withdrew my hand slowly, my finger tracing a line 
down the inside of her thigh.

	I offered her my hand, pulled her from the bench and we 
ended up face-to-face, lips and noses almost touching.  I could feel 
her hard breasts on my ribs as she looked up at me, and I am sure 
she could feel my swollen horn at her navel.  "Tonight," I said, and 
we parted.  I sure she was trembling.

	It was well after midnight when a small flame flickered to life in 
the corner window of the second floor.  I vaulted the low fence, 
dragged myself up the drainpipe, scurried across the chimneypiece 
and swung up on the balcony ironwork feeling like a second rate 
Romeo from some tattered road company.  The balcony creaked 
with my weight and my heart stopped briefly.

	I stepped into the dark room and into her arms.  "Hush," she 
said when she managed to pull her mouth away from mine.  "He was 
very drunk tonight, but my bed is quite noisy.  He's had me there 
from time to time, when he's sober.  Come."

	She led me to a softly cushioned and very capacious chair, a 
loveseat some might call it, almost big enough for two with flaring 
arms and big-footed legs, fumbled with my buttons and camped on 
my knees until I was ready, my horn reaching out toward her, 
jumping eagerly, her nightgown bunched at her waist, her eager 
smile an open invitation.  Then she inched forward with her hands 
behind my neck until her knees were at my rump and her breasts in 
my face.  I massaged her with my eager spear, sliding it up her warm 
crease and feeling her tremble as it crept down and found her tiny, 
slick opening and nudged between her inflamed lips as she tipped 
her pelvis toward me and took a deep breath.

	She gasped when our bodies joined and exhaled over and 
over as we began, heaving her ripe frame onto mine, mouth gaping 
wide, sparing herself not at all as she flexed up and down on my 
long, rigid spear, burying it in her cloying depths.  She did most of 
the hard work and achieved several robust climaxes over the next 
half-hour or so with our mouths joined to silence our shuddering 
pleasure.  Then when she seemed asleep, she head slumped on my 
shoulder, I hauled her to her big bed, tucked her in and stood, 
listening to her girlish snores.  I crept down the stairs and ransacked 
the officer's desk, found a few papers of interest, folded them into 
my boot, and left as quietly as I could by the side door.

	In the morning I examined what I had stolen and found I had 
taken little of any value, mostly standard engineering drawings.  I 
met the woman in the market again, handed her slave a shilling and 
took her to a different coffeehouse.

	"I enjoyed that," I said in her ear.  "You were monstrous 
wonderful.  It was most exciting, wasn't it?"

	She looked down into her coffee coyly.  "Thank you," she 
whispered.  "So were you.  Can we do it again some day?"

	"Now?" I suggested, putting my hand on hers under the table.

	"No, no. Fool.  Tonight, probably.  What did you do after I 
got in bed?"

	"Last night?  I thought you were asleep."

	"I was tired, worn out.  You're a bull, you know.  I pretended 
just to stop you.  I mean, how many times did we do it?"

	"I needed to visit the privy."

	"I heard the door.  It took you a long time to leave."

	I held her hand, looked into her dark eyes and decided to 
take a chance.

	"I searched your husband's desk downstairs, in the library," I 
told her, watching her reaction as her lovely chest rose and fell.  I 
would have hated to kill her if I had guessed wrong, but I might 
have.  I pushed that concern off to an unused corner of my mind, 
one I did not plan to revisit. In that whole long war I was 
responsible for the death of less than a handful of women.

	"Why?" she whispered, bending closer, displaying her fine 
breasts and their rosy nipples beneath some Belgian finery.  She had 
laced herself very tightly and her round bubbies were pressed 
together as well as chinwards.  I longed to get something between 
them, perhaps my tongue or a similarly sensitive, if somewhat longer 
prong.

	"I'm a spy, an American spy." I grinned at her.  "You won't tell 
anybody, I hope.  It would mean my death."

	"Really," she said, sitting up very straight, blinking and licking 
her lips.  She swallowed.  "Are you really?"

	I nodded, looking very serious and watching her eyes.

	"I can help you," she whispered, as I fondled her leg.  
"Perhaps.  My family favors Pitt.  We think this action by North and 
the army is wrong, foolish, expensive and wrong.  Don't do that."

	I relaxed but kept petting her, stroking her thigh while her 
hand crept into my crotch and found my aching rod, holding it 
tenderly, petting.

	"But there will be a price," she said with a wicked smile. She 
pinched.

	"How much?" I asked with a small smile, hopeful.

	"Each time you please me," she whispered, grasping the head 
of my member, "each time you bring me to a real peak, I will give 
you some papers of his, diagrams, lists, things that should aid your 
cause."

	"That's a very high price," I said, smiling broadly and kneading 
her cunny, my thumb seeking her sensitive nub.

	"You can pay," she whispered, squeezing gently and producing 
a whinny in my throat.  "You're rich."

	Two more times that week I visited the lady's bedchamber late 
at night and each time I managed to come away with several 
documents that, in my estimation, were very valuable.  The work 
was hard and the dangers were real, but the pleasure was great and 
the lady most inventive since we never used her bed.  I had her 
once as she sat atop her walnut chest of drawers and another time 
with her back to the door that led to her husband's room and again 
with her almost upside down, her head buried in her big chair.  
George and I returned to camp, delivered what we had and were 
told to go back for more.  George's contacts on the docks had 
proved reliable, and the woman who was supplying me had 
produced wonderful things, I was told.

	Once more I bumped into her in the market, bowed and 
walked on by.  That night I waited in a cold drizzle for the light to 
appear, but it did not.  I stumbled into my cellar hiding place and 
slept.  The next day she took my arm in the market and whispered, 
"Tonight, you beast.  He's going up river."

	The door of her narrow home opened shortly after dark, and 
there she stood with a candle, dressed for bed.  I hurried inside, we 
kissed and she dragged me up to her bedroom, undressing as we 
went.

	"We can use the bed, finally," she hissed at me as I yanked off 
my boots.  "He won't be back for a week."  I trembled at the 
thought, quickly hardening.

	We were well into our second or third tumultuous swiving 
when the door of her bedroom slammed open and her stocky 
husband appeared, in full regimentals.  "Ready for me, m'love?" he 
demanded, stumbling into the room, obviously drunk and smelling 
of brandy and tobacco.

	I rolled off his wife and slid under the bed, but he saw me.

	"What was that?" he cried, and I heard him rasp out his 
sword.  His wife screeched as he poked under the bed and I 
scrambled out the other side.  Since I was wearing nothing but my 
skin, my hands were my only weapons.  I kicked the man to the 
floor, straddled him and choked him, my thumbs deep into the 
middle of his thick neck, feeling things crumble and snap.  He 
sputtered and gagged, beat at me weakly and then his eyes rolled 
back and he went limp.  I put my ear to his chest and heard nothing.

	I slid his sword back into his scabbard, dragged him to the top 
of the long staircase and then got my clothes on.  His wife stood 
beside me, pulling her nightgown together.  "Ready," I said to her 
when I had buckled my heavy belt about me.  "I'm going to yell 
once, then I'm leaving."

	She looked at me wide eyed as I tossed her limp husband, 
head first, down the steps.  I howled and his body tumbled to lay 
awkwardly sprawled at the foot of the steep stairs, very still, with 
its head at an impossible angle.

	"What was that?" the woman cried as I left by way of the 
balcony.

	A week later we met again in the market.  She was all in black 
and her slave girl was not to be seen.  She took my arm and we 
went to a nearby inn.

	"I'm a rich widow," she told me, looking though her heavy veil.  
She pushed it back when the coffee arrived.  "I'm leaving, going back 
to Bristol," she said.

	"When?"

	"Soon."

	"I'm sorry."

	"I have some papers, all I could find before they came to cart 
everything away."

	"Where?"

	"Under my bed."  She smiled briefly, just a carnal flicker.

	"Shall I fetch them?"

	She nodded and lowered her veil again.  Although it was 
barely mid day, I walked her home.  The house was nearly empty, 
most of the heavy furniture on the first floor covered with sheets, 
no paintings on the walls.  The place echoed.

	She found a bottle of wine, a half loaf of bread and some 
cheddar cheese, and with those we adjourned to her room.  She had 
been right; her bed was very noisy.  By the time we slept, I had 
earned every paper in the man's valise and several more in all 
likelihood.  The limp women lay panting on my chest, her long legs 
on either side of my hips, her hot cunny a soggy mess, her small 
prick finally limp and her breasts soft.

	"Rest, please," she burbled, gasping and moaning.  It was good 
advice.  I rolled her off me and by the time I used the jar, she was 
sound asleep.  I was tempted to leave with my prizes, but more 
tempted to stay and deliver the interest due on her account.

	Shortly after dawn, after a good night's sleep, I roused her 
with a kiss.  She spread her knees and welcomed me, arms 
outstretched, knees near her shoulders.  Then she howled as my 
trusty iron rod entered her.

	"Sblood," she cried, gasping as I sheathed myself in her.  
"Ahhhh," she cried.  "No, no, no," she moaned as she wriggled and 
spasmed.  I drove into her; she arched and her legs clamped about 
me. The bed soon squeaked, squealed, moaned and rocked with our 
love making, and the woman writhed and achieved orgasm after 
orgasm on my huge and tireless ram.  She drooled and sighed when 
we stopped, clawing at me and swallowing hard, trembling in my 
arms.

	"I can't believe that," she whispered while I held her breast and 
nuzzled her throat, eager for more, oak hard.  I pulled some pillows 
down under her rump, got to my knees and took her again, 
vigorously, grinding us together.  She shook and rocked from side 
to side, waving her arms and kicking her feet.  We rolled off the 
pillows, and she mounted me, heaving and humping, bent so her 
forehead was on my chest and her knees in my ribs.

	When we both we done, both exhausted, I dressed, knelt 
beside her bed, turned her face to mine and kissed her.  "Thank 
you," I said, "on behalf of the American army and George 
Washington himself, I thank you.  Tell Pitt you did you damnedest."

<1st attachment end>

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